Several  pairs  of  brighter  eyes  followed  my  companion 


THE  GUEST  OF 
QUESNAY 


BY 

BOOTH  TARKINGTON 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1917 


qt 

\ 


\ 


COPYRIGHT,  1008,  BY 

DOUBLEDAY.  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  1907,  1908,  BY 

THE  RIDGWAY  COMPANY 


TO 
OVID  BUTLER  JAMESON 


A  ft 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Several    pajrs    of    brighter    eyes    followed    my 
companion Frontispiece 


FACING   PAGE 


"I  haven't  had  my  life.  It's  gone!"  .  .  166 
"You  and  Miss  Ward  are  old  and  dear  friends, 

aren't  you?"  ...  .  .198 

"Embrasse  moi,  Larrabi!  Embrasse  moi!" 

she  cried  .  240 


CHAPTER  I 

THERE  are  old  Parisians  who  will  tell  you 
pompously  that  the  boulevards,  like  the  po- 
litical cafes,  have  ceased  to  exist,  but  this 
means  only  that  the  boulevards  no  longer  gossip  of 
Louis  Napoleon,  the  Return  of  the  Bourbons,  or  of 
General  Boulanger,  for  these  highways  are  always 
too  busily  stirring  with  present  movements  not  to 
be  forgetful  of  their  yesterdays.  In  the  shade  of 
the  buildings  and  awnings,  the  loungers,  the  look- 
ers-on in  Paris,  the  audience  of  the  boulevard,  sit 
at  little  tables,  sipping  coffee  from  long  glasses, 
drinking  absinthe  or  bright-coloured  sirops,  and 
gazing  over  the  heads  of  throngs  afoot  at  others 
borne  along  through  the  sunshine  of  the  street  in 
carriages,  in  cabs,  in  glittering  automobiles,  or  high 
on  the  tops  of  omnibuses. 

From  all  the  continents  the  multitudes  come  to 
join  in  that  procession:  Americans,  tagged  with 
race-cards  and  intending  hilarious  disturbances; 
puzzled  Americans,  worn  with  guide-book  plodding; 


4  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

Chinese  princes  in  silk;  queer  Antillean  dandies  of 
swarthy  origin  and  fortune;  ruddy  English,  think- 
ing of  nothing;  pallid  English,  with  upper  teeth 
bared  and  eyes  hungrily  searching  for  sign-boards 
of  tea-rooms;  over-Europeanised  Japanese,  unpleas- 
antly immaculate;  burnoosed  sheiks  from  the  desert, 
and  red-fezzed  Semitic  peddlers;  Italian  nobles  in 
English  tweeds;  Soudanese  negroes  swaggering  in 
frock  coats;  slim  Spaniards,  squat  Turks,  travellers, 
idlers,  exiles,  fugitives,  sportsmen — all  the  tribes 
and  kinds  of  men  are  tributary  here  to  the  Parisian 
stream  which,  on  a  fair  day  in  spring,  already  over- 
flows the  banks  with  its  own  much-mingled  waters. 
Soberly  clad  burgesses,  bearded,  amiable,  and  in  no 
fatal  hurry;  well-kept  men  of  the  world  swirling 
by  in  miraculous  limousines;  legless  cripples  flopping 
on  hands  and  leather  pads;  thin- whiskered  stu- 
dents in  velveteen;  walrus-moustached  veterans  in 
broadcloth;  keen-faced  old  prelates;  shabby  young 
priests;  cavalrymen  in  casque  and  cuirass;  work- 
ingmen  turned  horse  and  harnessed  to  carts;  side- 
walk jesters,  itinerant  vendors  of  questionable 
wares;  shady  loafers  dressed  to  resemble  gold- 
showering  America;  motor-cyclists  in  leather;  hairy 
musicians, blue  gendarmes, baggy  red  zouaves;  purple- 


CHAPTER  ONE  5 

faced,  glazed-hatted,  scarlet- waistcoated,  cigarette- 
smoking  cabmen,  calling  one  another  "onions," 
"camels,"  and  names  even  more  terrible.  Women 
prevalent  over  all  the  concourse;  fair  women,  dark 
women,  pretty  women,  gilded  women,  haughty 
women,  indifferent  women,  friendly  women,  merry 
women.  Fine  women  in  fine  clothes;  rich  women  in 
fine  clothes;  poor  women  in  fine  clothes.  Worldly 
old  women,  reclining  befurred  in  electric  landaulettes; 
wordy  old  women  hoydenishly  trundling  carts  full 
of  flowers.  Wonderful  automobile  women  quick- 
glimpsed,  in  multiple  veils  of  white  and  brown  and 
sea-green.  Women  in  rags  and  tags,  and  women 
draped,  coifed,  and  befrilled  in  the  delirium  of 
maddened  poet-milliners  and  the  hasheesh  dreams 
of  ladies'  tailors. 

About  the  procession,  as  it  moves  interminably 
along  the  boulevard,  a  blue  haze  of  fine  dust  and 
burnt  gasoline  rises  into  the  sunshine  like  the  haze 
over  the  passages  to  an  amphitheatre  toward  which 
a  crowd  is  trampling;  and  through  this  the  multi- 
tudes seem  to  go  as  actors  passing  to  their  cues. 
Your  place  at  one  of  the  little  tables  upon  the  side- 
walk is  that  of  a  wayside  spectator:  and  as  the 
performers  go  by,  in  some  measure  acting  or  look- 


6  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

ing  their  parts  already,  as  if  in  preparation,  you 
guess  the  r61es  they  play,  and  name  them  comedians, 
tragedians,  buffoons,  saints,  beauties,  sots,  knaves, 
gladiators,  acrobats,  dancers;  for  all  of  these  are 
there,  and  you  distinguish  the  principles  from  the 
unnumbered  supernumeraries  pressing  forward  to 
the  entrances.  So,  if  you  sit  at  the  little  tables 
often  enough — that  is,  if  you  become  an  amateur 
boulevardier — you  begin  to  recognise  the  transient 
stars  of  the  pageant,  those  to  whom  the  boulevard 
allows  a  dubious  and  fugitive  r61e  of  celebrity,  and 
whom  it  greets  with  a  slight  nutter:  the  turning 
of  heads,  a  murmur  of  comment,  and  the  incredulous 
boulevard  smile,  which  seems  to  say:  "You  see? 
Madame  and  monsieur  passing  there — evidently  they 
think  we  still  believe  in  them!" 

This  flutter  heralded  and  followed  the  passing 
of  a  white  touring-car  with  the  procession  one 
afternoon,  just  before  the  Grand  Prix,  though  it 
needed  no  boulevard  celebrity  to  make  the  man 
who  lolled  in  the  tonneau  conspicuous.  Simply  for 
thai,  notoriety  was  superfluous;  so  were  the  remark- 
able size  and  power  of  his  car;  so  was  the  elaborate 
touring-^ojrlimie  of  flannels  and  pongee  he  wore;  so 
was  even  the  enamelled  presence  of  the  dancer  who 


CHAPTER  ONE  7 

sat  beside  him.  His  face  would  have  done  it  with- 
out accessories. 

My  old  friend,  George  Ward,  and  I  had  met  for 
our  aperitif  at  the  Terrace  Larue,  by  the  Made- 
leine, when  the  white  automobile  came  snaking  its 
way  craftily  through  the  traffic.  Turning  in  to 
pass  a  victoria  on  the  wrong  side,  it  was  forced 
down  to  a  snail's  pace  near  the  curb  and  not  far 
from  our  table,  where  it  paused,  checked  by  a  block- 
ade at  the  next  corner.  I  heard  Ward  utter  a 
half -suppressed  guttural  of  what  I  took  to  be  amaze- 
ment, and  I  did  not  wonder. 

The  face  of  the  man  in  the  tonneau  detached  him 
to  the  spectator's  gaze  and  singled  him  out  of  the 
concourse  with  an  effect  almost  ludicrous  in  its 
incongruity.  The  hair  was  dark,  lustrous  and 
thick,  the  forehead  broad  and  finely  modelled,  and 
certain  other  ruinous  vestiges  of  youth  and  good 
looks  remained;  but  whatever  the  features  might 
once  have  shown  of  honour,  worth,  or  kindly  sem- 
blance had  disappeared  beyond  all  tracing  in  a 
blurred  distortion.  The  lids  of  one  eye  were  dis- 
coloured and  swollen  almost  together;  other  traces 
of  a  recent  battering  were  not  lacking,  nor  was 
cosmetic  evidence  of  a  heroic  struggle,  on  the  part 


8  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

of  some  valet  of  infinite  pains,  to  efface  them. 
The  nose  lost  outline  in  the  discolorations  of  the 
puffed  cheeks;  the  chin,  tufted  with  a  small  im- 
perial, trembled  beneath  a  sagging,  gray  lip.  And 
that  this  bruised  and  dissipated  mask  should  suffer 
the  final  grotesque  touch,  it  was  decorated  with 
the  moustache  of  a  coquettish  marquis,  the  ends 
waxed  and  exquisitely  elevated. 

The  figure  was  fat,  but  loose  and  sprawling, 
seemingly  without  the  will  to  hold  itself  together; 
in  truth  the  man  appeared  to  be  almost  in  a  semi- 
stupor,  and,  contrasted  with  this  powdered  Silenus, 
even  the  woman  beside  him  gained  something  of 
human  dignity.  At  least,  she  was  thoroughly 
alive,  bold,  predatory,  and  in  spite  of  the  gross 
embon-point  that  threatened  her,  still  savagely 
graceful.  A  purple  veil,  dotted  with  gold,  floated 
about  her  hat,  from  which  green-dyed  ostrich  plumes 
cascaded  down  across  a  cheek  enamelled  dead  white. 
Her  hair  was  plastered  in  blue-black  waves,  parted 
low  on  the  forehead;  her  lips  were  splashed  a 
startling  carmine,  the  eyelids  painted  blue;  and, 
from  between  lashes  gummed  into  little  spikes  of 
blacking,  she  favoured  her  companion  with  a  glance 
of  carelessly  simulated  tenderness, — a  look  all  too 


CHAPTER  ONE  9 

vividly  suggesting  the  ghastly  calculations  of  a 
cook  wheedling  a  chicken  nearer  the  kitchen  door. 
But  I  felt  no  great  pity  for  the  victim. 

"Who  is  it?"  I  asked,  staring  at  the  man  in  the 
automobile  and  not  turning  toward  Ward. 

"That  is  Mariana — '/a  bella  Mariana  la  Mursi- 
ana,'  "  George  answered;  '  — one  of  those  women 
who  come  to  Paris  from  the  tropics  to  form  them- 
selves on  the  legend  of  the  one  great  famous  and 
infamous  Spanish  dancer  who  died  a  long  while 
ago.  Mariana  did  very  well  for  a  time.  I've  heard 
that  the  revolutionary  societies  intend  striking 
medals  in  her  honour:  she's  done  worse  things  to 
royalty  than  all  the  anarchists  in  Europe!  But  her 
great  days  are  over:  she's  getting  old;  that  type 
goes  to  pieces  quickly,  once  it  begins  to  slump, 
and  it  won't  be  long  before  she'll  be  horribly  fat, 
though  she's  still  a  graceful  dancer.  She  danced 
at  the  Folie  Rouge  last  week." 

"Thank  you,  George,"  I  said  gratefully.  "I 
hope  you'll  point  out  the  Louvre  and  the  Eiffel 
Tower  to  me  some  day.  I  didn't  mean  Mariana." 

"What  did  you  mean?" 

What  I  had  meant  was  so  obvious  that  I  turned 
to  my  friend  in  surprise.  He  was  nervously  tapping 


10  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

his  chin  with  the  handle  of  his  cane  and  staring 
at  the  white  automobile  with  very  grim  interest. 

"I  meant  the  man  with  her,"  I  said. 

"Oh!"     He  laughed  sourly.     "That  carrion?" 

"You  seem  to  be  an  acquaintance." 

"Everybody  on  the  boulevard  knows  who  he  is," 
said  Ward  curtly,  paused,  and  laughed  again  with 
very  little  mirth.  "So  do  you,"  he  continued; 
"and  as  for  my  acquaintance  with  him — yes,  I 
had  once  the  distinction  of  being  his  rival  in  a 
small  way,  a  way  so  small,  in  fact,  that  it  ended 
in  his  Becoming  a  connection  of  mine  by  marriage. 
He's  Larrabee  Harman." 

That  was  a  name  somewhat  familiar  to  readers 
of  American  newspapers  even  before  its  bearer  was 
fairly  out  of  college.  The  publicity  it  then  attained 
(partly  due  to  young  Harman's  conspicuous  wealth) 
attached  to  some  youthful  exploits  not  without  a 
certain  wild  humour.  But  frolic  degenerated  into 
brawl  and  debauch:  what  had  been  scrapes  for 
the  boy  became  scandals  for  the  man;  arid  he 
gathered  a  more  and  more  unsavoury  reputatioi 
until  its  like  was  not  to  be  found  outside  a  pen- 
itentiary. The  crux  of  his  career  in  his  own  country 
was  reached  during  a  midnight  quarrel  in  Chicago 


CHAPTER  ONE  11 

when  he  shot  a  negro  gambler.  After  that,  the 
negro  having  recovered  and  the  matter  being  some- 
how arranged  so  that  the  prosecution  was  dropped, 
Harman's  wife  left  him,  and  the  papers  recorded 
her  application  for  a  divorce.  She  was  George 
Ward's  second  cousin,  the  daughter  of  a  Baltimore 
clergyman;  a  belle  in  a  season  and  town  of  belles, 
and  a  delightful,  headstrong  creature,  from  all 
accounts.  She  had  made  a  runaway  match  of  it 
with  Harman  three  years  before,  their  affair  having 
been  earnestly  opposed  by  all  her  relatives — espec- 
ially by  poor  George,  who  came  over  to  Paris  just 
after  the  wedding  in  a  miserable  frame  of  mind. 

The  Chicago  exploit  was  by  no  means  the  end 
of  Harman's  notoriety.  Evading  an  v  effort  (on 
the  part  of  an  aunt,  I  believe)  to  get  him  locked 
up  safely  in  a  "sanitarium,"  he  began  a  trip  round 
the  world  w^ith  an  orgy  which  continued  from 
San  Francisco  to  Bangkok,  where,  in  the  company 
of  some  congenial  fellow  travellers,  he  interfered 
in  a  native  ceremonial  with  the  result  that  one  of 
his  companions  was  drowned.  Proceeding,  he  was 
reported  to  be  in  serious  trouble  at  Constantinople, 
the  result  of  an  inquisitiveness  little  appreciated 
by  Orientals.  The  State  Department,  bestirring 


12  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

itself,  saved  him  from  a  very  real  peril,  and  he 
continued  his  journey.  In  Rome  he  was  rescued 
with  difficulty  from  a  street  mob  that  unreasonably 
refused  to  accept  intoxication  as  an  excuse  for  his 
riding  down  a  child  on  his  way  to  the  hunt.  Later, 
during  the  winter  just  past,  we  had  been  hearing 
from  Monte  Carlo  of  his  disastrous  plunges  at 
that  most  imbecile  of  all  games,  roulette. 

Every  event,  no  matter  how  trifling,  in  this 
man's  pitiful  career  had  been  recorded  in  the  Amer- 
ican newspapers  with  an  elaboration  which,  for 
my  part,  I  found  infuriatingly  tiresome.  I  have 
lived  in  Paris  so  long  that  I  am  afraid  to  go  home: 
I  have  too  little  to  show  for  my  years  of  pottering 
with  paint  and  canvas,  and  I  have  grown  timid 
about  all  the  changes  that  have  crept  in  at  home. 
I  do  not  know  the  "new  men,"  I  do  not  know  how 
they  would  use  me,  and  fear  they  might  make  no 
place  for  me;  and  so  I  fit  myself  more  closely  into 
the  little  grooves  I  have  worn  for  myself,  and  re- 
sign myself  to  stay.  But  I  am  no  "expatriate" 
I  know  there  is  a  feeling  at  home  against  us  who 
remain  over  here  to  do  our  work,  but  in  most  in- 
stances it  is  a  prejudice  which  springs  from  a  mis- 
understanding. I  think  the  quality  of  patriotism 


CHAPTER  ONE  IS 

in  those  of  us  who  "didn't  go  home  in  time"  is 
almost  pathetically  deep  and  real,  and,  like  many 
another  oldish  fellow  in  my  position,  I  try  to  keep 
as  close  to  things  at  home  as  I  can.  All  of  my 
old  friends  gradually  ceased  to  write  to  me,  but 
I  still  take  three  home  newspapers,  trying  to  fol- 
low the  people  I  knew  and  the  things  that  happen; 
and  the  ubiquity  of  so  worthless  a  creature  as 
Larrabee  Harman  in  the  columns  I  dredged  for 
real  news  had  long  been  a  point  of  irritation  to 
this  present  exile.  Not  only  that:  he  had  usurped 
space  in  the  Continental  papers,  and  of  late  my 
favourite  Parisian  journal  had  served  him  to  me 
with  my  morning  coffee,  only  hinting  his  name,  but 
offering  him  with  that  gracious  satire  character- 
istic of  the  Gallic  journalist  writing  of  anything 
American.  And  so  this  grotesque  wreck  of  a  man 
was  well  known  to  the  boulevard — one  of  its  sights. 
That  was  to  be  perceived  by  the  flutter  he  caused, 
by  the  turning  of  heads  in  his  direction,  and  the 
low  laughter  of  the  people  at  the  little  tables.  Three 
or  four  in  the  rear  ranks  had  risen  to  their  feet 
to  get  a  better  look  at  him  and  his  companion. 

Some  one  behind  us  chuckled  aloud.     "They  say 
Mariana  beats  him." 


14  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

"Evidently!" 

The  dancer  was  aware  of  the  flutter,  and  called 
Harman's  attention  to  it  with  a  touch  upon  his 
arm  and  a  laugh  and  a  nod  of  her  violent  plumage. 

At  that  he  seemed  to  rouse  himself  somewhat: 
his  head  rolled  heavily  over  upon  his  shoulder, 
the  lids  lifted  a  little  from  the  red-shot  eyes,  show- 
ing a  strange  pride  when  his  gaze  fell  upon  the 
many  staring  faces. 

Then,  as  the  procession  moved  again  and  the 
white  automobile  with  it,  the  sottish  mouth  widened 
in  a  smile  of  dull  and  cynical  contempt:  the  look 
of  a  half-poisoned  Augustan  borne  down  through 
the  crowds  from  the  Palatine  after  supping  with 
Caligula. 

Ward  pulled  my  sleeve. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "let  us  go  over  to  the  Lux- 
embourg gardens  where  the  air  is  cleaner." 


CHAPTER  H 

WARD  is  a  portrait-painter,  and  in  the 
matter  of  vogue  there   seem  to  be  no 
pinnacles   left    for  him  to   surmount. 
I  think  he  has  painted  most  of  the  very  rich  women 
of  fashion  who  have  come  to  Paris  of  late  years, 
and  he  has  become  so  prosperous,  has  such  a  polite 
celebrity,   and  his  opinions  upon  art  are  so  con- 
clusively  quoted,   that  the  friendship   of   some   of 
us    who   started    with    him    has    been    dangerously 
strained. 

He  lives  a  well-ordered  life;  he  has  always  led 
that  kind  of  life.  Even  in  his  student  days  when 
I  first  knew  him,  I  do  not  remember  an  occasion 
upon  which  the  principal  of  a  New  England  high- 
school  would  have  criticised  his  conduct.  And  yet 
I  never  heard  anyone  call  him  a  prig;  and,  so  far 
as  I  know,  no  one  was  ever  so  stupid  as  to  think 
him  one.  He  was  a  quiet,  good-looking,  well- 
dressed  boy,  and  he  matured  into  a  somewhat  re- 
served, well-poised  man,  of  impressive  distinction 
in  appearance  and  manner.  He  has  always  been 

15 


16  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

well  tended  and  cared  for  by  women;  in  his  stu- 
dent days  his  mother  lived  with  him;  his  sister, 
Miss  Elizabeth,  looks  after  him  now.  She  came 
with  him  when  he  returned  to  Paris  after  his  dis- 
appointment in  the  unfortunate  Harman  affair,  and 
she  took  charge  of  all  his  business — as  well  as  his 
social — arrangements  (she  has  been  accused  of  a 
theory  that  the  two  things  may  be  happily  com- 
bined), making  him  lease  a  house  in  an  expensively 
modish  quarter  near  the  Avenue  du  Bois  de 
Boulogne.  Miss  Elizabeth  is  an  instinctively  fash- 
ionable woman,  practical  withal,  and  to  her  mind 
success  should  be  not  only  respectable  but  "smart." 
She  does  not  speak  of  the  "right  bank"  and  the 
"left  bank"  of  the  Seine;  she  calls  them  the  "right 
bank"  and  the  "wrong  bank."  And  yet,  though 
she  removed  George  (her  word  is  "rescued")  from 
many  of  his  old  associations  with  Montparnasse, 
she  warmly  encouraged  my  friendship  with  him — 
yea,  in  spite  of  my  living  so  deep  in  the  wrong 
bank  that  the  first  time  he  brought  her  to  my 
studio,  she  declared  she  hadn't  seen  anything 
so  like  Bring-the-child-to-the-old-hag's-cellar-at-mid- 
night  since  her  childhood.  She  is  a  handsome 
woman,  large,  and  of  a  fine,  high  colour;  her  manner 


CHAPTER  TWO  17 

is  gaily  dictatorial,  and  she  and  I  got  along  very 
well  together. 

Probably  she  appreciated  my  going  to  some  pains 
with  the  clothes  I  wore  when  I  went  to  their  house. 
My  visits  there  were  infrequent,  not  because  I 
had  any  fear  of  wearing  out  a  welcome,  but  on 
account  of  Miss  Elizabeth's  "day,"  when  I  could 
see  nothing  of  George  for  the  crowd  of  lionising 
women  and  time-wasters  about  him.  Her  "day" 
was  a  dread  of  mine;  I  could  seldom  remember 
which  day  it  was,  and  when  I  did  she  had  a  way 
of  shifting  it  so  that  I  was  fatally  sure  to  run  into 
it — to  my  misery,  for,  beginning  with  those  pri- 
mordial indignities  suffered  in  youth,  when  I  was 
scrubbed  with  a  handkerchief  outside  the  parlour 
door  as  a  preliminary  to  polite  usages,  my  child- 
hood's, manhood's  prayer  has  been:  From  all  such 
days,  Good  Lord,  deliver  me! 

It  was  George's  habit  to  come  much  oftener 
to  see  me.  He  always  really  liked  the  sort  of  so- 
ciety his  sister  had  brought  about  him;  but  now 
and  then  there  were  intervals  when  it  wore  on 
him  a  little,  I  think.  Sometimes  he  came  for  me 
in  his  automobile  and  we  would  make  a  mild  ex- 
cursion to  breakfast  in  the  country;  and  that  is 


18  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

what  happened  one  morning  about  three  weeks 
after  the  day  when  we  had  sought  pure  air  in  the 
Luxembourg  gardens. 

We  drove  out  through  the  Bois  and  by  Suresnes, 
striking  into  a  roundabout  road  to  Versailles  be- 
yond St.  Cloud.  It  was  June,  a  dustless  and  balmy 
noon,  the  air  thinly  gilded  by  a  faint  haze,  and 
I  know  few  things  pleasanter  than  that  road  on 
a  fair  day  of  the  early  summer  and  no  sweeter 
way  to  course  it  than  in  an  open  car;  though  I 
must  not  be  giving  myself  out  for  a  "motorist ' 
—I  have  not  even  the  right  cap.  I  am  usually 
nervous  in  big  machines,  too;  but  Ward  has  never 
caught  the  speed  mania  and  holds  a  strange  powei 
over  his  chauffeur;  so  we  rolled  along  peacefully,  not 
madly,  and  smoked  (like  the  car)  in  hasteless  content. 

"After  all,"  said  George,  with  a  pjacid  wave  of 
the  hand,  "I  sometimes  wish  that  the  landscape 
had  called  me.  You  outdoor  men  have  all  the 
health  and  pleasure  of  living  in  the  open,  and  as 
for  the  work — oh!  you  fellows  think  you  work,  but 
you  don't  know  what  it  means." 

"No?"  I  said,  and  smiled  as  I  always  meanly 
do  when  George  "talks  art."  He  was  silent  for  a 
few  moments  and  then  said  irritably, 


CHAPTER  TWO  Id 

"Well,  at  least  you  can't  deny  that  the  academic 
rrowd  can  DRAW!" 

Never  having  denied  it,  though  he  had  challenged 
me  in  the  same  way  perhaps*  a  thousand  times, 
I  refused  to  deny  it  now;  whereupon  he  returned 
to  his  theme:  "Landscape  is  about  as  simple  as  a 
stage  fight;  two  up,  two  down,  cross  and  repeat. 
Take  that  ahead  of  us.  Could  anything  be  simpler 
to  paint?" 

He  indicated  the  white  road  running  before  us 
between  open  fields  to  a  curve,  where  it  descended 
to  pass  beneath  an  old  stone  culvert.  Beyond, 
stood  a  thick  grove  with  a  clear  sky  flickering 
among  the  branches.  An  old  peasant  woman  was 
pushing  a  heavy  cart  round  the  curve,  a  scarlet 
handkerchief  knotted  about  her  head. 

"You  think  it's  easy?"  I  asked. 

"Easy!  Two  hours  ought  to  do  it  as  well  as 
it  could  be  done — at  least,  the  way  you  fellows 
do  it!"  He  clenched  his  fingers  as  if  upon  the 
handle  of  a  house-painter's  brush.  "Slap,  dash — 
there's  your  road."  He  paddled  the  air  with  the, 
imaginary  brush  as  though  painting  the  side  of 
a  barn.  "Swish,  swash — there  go  your  fields  and 
your  stone  bridge.  Fit!  Speck!  And  there's  your 


20  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

old  woman,  her  red  handkerchief,  and  what  your 
dealer  will  probably  call  'the  human  interest/  all 
complete.  Squirt  the  edges  of  your  foliage  in  with 
a  blow-pipe.  Throw  a  cup  of  tea  over  the  whole, 
and  there's  your  haze.  Call  it  'The  Golden  Road,* 
or  'The  Bath  of  Sunlight,'  or  'Quiet  Noon/  Then 
you'll  probably  get  a  criticism  beg:nning,  Tew  in- 
deed have  more  intangibly  detained  upon  canvas 
so  poetic  a  quality  of  sentiment  as  this  sterling 
landscapist,  who  in  Number  136  has  most  ethereally 
expressed  the  profound  silence  of  evening  on  an 
English  moor.  The  solemn  hush,  the  brooding 
quiet,  the  homeward  ploughman ' ' 

He  was  interrupted  by  an  outrageous  uproar, 
the  grisly  scream  of  a  siren  and  the  cannonade  of 
a  powerful  exhaust,  as  a  great  white  touring-car 
swung  round  us  from  behind  at  a  speed  that  sick- 
ened me  to  see,  and,  snorting  thunder,  passed  us 
"as  if  we  had  been  standing  still." 

It  hurtled  like  a  comet  down  the  curve  and  we 
were  instantly  choking  in  its  swirling  tail  of  dust. 

"Seventy  miles  an  hour!"  gasped  George,  swab- 
bing at  his  eyes.  "Those  are  the  fellows  that  get 
into  the  pa—  Oh,  Lord!  There  they  go!" 

Swinging  out  to  pass  us  and  then  sweeping  in 


CHAPTER  TWO  21 

upon  the  reverse  curve  to  clear  the  narrow  arch 
of  the  culvert  were  too  much  for  the  white  car; 
and  through  the  dust  we  saw  it  rock  dangerously. 
In  the  middle  of  the  road,  ten  feet  from  the  cul- 
vert, the  old  woman  struggled  frantically  to  get  her 
cart  out  of  the  way.  The  howl  of  the  siren  frightened 
her  perhaps,  for  she  lost  her  head  and  went  to  the 
wrong  side.  Then  the  shriek  of  the  machine  drowned 
the  human  scream  as  the  automobile  struck. 

The  shock  of  contact  was  muffled.  But  the  mass 
of  machinery  hoisted  itself  in  the  air  as  if  it  had 
a  life  of  its  own  and  had  been  stung  into  sudden 
madness.  It  was  horrible  to  see,  and  so  grotesque 
that  a  long-forgotten  memory  of  my  boyhood  leaped 
instantaneously  into  my  mind,  a  recollection  of  the 
evolutions  performed  by  a  Newfoundland  dog  that 
rooted  under  a  board  walk  and  found  a  hive  of 
wild  bees. 

The  great  machine  left  the  road  for  the  fields 
on  the  right,  reared,  fell,  leaped  against  the  stone 
side  of  the  culvert,  apparently  trying  to  climb 
it,  stood  straight  on  end,  whirled  backward  in  a 
half-somersault,  crashed  over  on  its  side,  flashed 
with  flame  and  explosion,  and  lay  hidden  under  a 
cloud  of  dust  and  smoke. 


22  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

Ward's  driver  slammed  down  his  accelerator, 
sent  us  spinning  round  the  curve,  and  the  next 
moment,  throwing  on  his  brakes,  halted  sharply 
at  the  culvert. 

The  fabric  of  the  road  was  so  torn  and  distorted 
one  might  have  thought  a  steam  dredge  had  begun 
work  there,  but  the  fragments  of  wreckage  were 
oddly  isolated  and  inconspicuous.  The  peasant's 
cart,  tossed  into  a  clump  of  weeds,  rested  on  its 
side,  the  spokes  of  a  rimless  wheel  slowly  revolving 
on  the  hub  uppermost.  Some  tools  were  strewn  in 
a  semi-circular  trail  in  the  dust;  a  pair  of  smashed 
goggles  crunched  beneath  my  foot  as  I  sprang  out 
of  Ward's  car,  and  a  big  brass  lamp  had  fallen 
in  the  middle  of  the  road,  crumpled  like  waste 
paper.  Beside  it  lay  a  gold  rouge  box. 

The  old  woman  had  somehow  saved  herself — 
or  perhaps  her  saint  had  helped  her — for  she  was 
sitting  in  the  grass  by  the  roadside,  wailing  hysteri- 
cally and  quite  unhurt.  The  body  of  a  man  lay 
in  a  heap  beneath  the  stone  archway,  and  from 
his  clothes  I  guessed  that  he  had  been  the  driver 
of  the  white  car.  I  say  "had  been"  because  there 
were  reasons  for  needing  no  second  glance  to  com- 
prehend that  the  man  was  dead.  Nevertheless,  I 


CHAPTER  TWO  £3 

knelt  beside  him  and  placed  my  hand  upon  his 
breast  to  see  if  his  heart  still  beat.  Afterward  I 
concluded  that  I  did  this  because  I  had  seen  it 
done  upon  the  stage,  or  had  read  of  it  in  stories; 
and  even  at  the  time  I  realised  that  it  was  a  silly 
thing  for  me  to  be  doing. 

Ward,  meanwhile,  proved  more  practical.  He 
was  dragging  a  woman  out  of  the  suffocating  smoke 
and  dust  that  shrouded  the  wreck,  and  after  a 

moment  I   went  to   help  him   carry  her  into  the 

B 
fresh  air,  where  George  put  his  coat  under  ner  head. 

Her  hat  had  been  forced  forward  over  her  face 
and  held  there  by  the  twisting  of  a  system  of  veils 
she  wore;  and  we  had  some  difficulty  in  unravelling 
this;  but  she  was  very  much  alive,  as  a  series  of 
muffled  imprecations  testified,  leading  us  to  con- 
clude that  her  sufferings  were  more  profoundly 
of  rage  than  of  pain.  Finally  she  pushed  our  hands 
angrily  aside  and  completed  the  untanglement  her- 
self, revealing  the  scratched  and  smeared  face  of 
Mariana,  the  dancer. 

"Cornichon!  Chameau!  Fond  du  bain!"  she 
gasped,  tears  of  anger  starting  from  her  eyes.  She 
tried  to  rise  before  we  could  help  hex,  but  dropped 
back  with  a  scream. 


24  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

"Oh,  the  pain!"  she  cried.  "That  imbecile!  If 
he  has  let  me  break  my  leg!  A  pretty  dancer  I 
should  be!  I  hope  he  is  killed." 

One  of  the  singularities  of  motoring  on  the  main- 
travelled  roads  near  Paris  is  the  prevalence  of  cars 
containing  physicians  and  surgeons.  Whether  it 
be  testimony  to  the  opportunism,  to  the  sporting 
proclivities,  or  to  the  prosperity  of  gentlemen  of 
those  professions,  I  do  not  know,  but  it  is  a  fact 
that  I  have  never  heard  of  an  accident  (and  in 
the  season  there  is  an  accident  every  day)  on  one 
of  these  roads  when  a  doctor  in  an  automobile  was 
not  almost  immediately  a  chance  arrival,  and  for- 
tunately our  case  offered  no  exception  to  this  rule. 
Another  automobile  had  already  come  up  and  the 
occupants  were  hastily  alighting.  Ward  shouted 
to  the  foremost  to  go  for  a  doctor. 

"I  am  a  doctor,"  the  man  answered,  advancing 
and  kneeling  quickly  by  the  dancer.  "And  you — 
you  may  be  of  help  yonder." 

We  turned  toward  the  ruined  car  where  Ward's 
driver  was  shouting  for  us. 

"What  is  it?"  called  Ward  as  we  ran  toward  him. 

"Monsieur,"  he  replied,  "there  is  some  one  under 
the  tonneau  here!" 


CHAPTER  TWO  25 

The  smoke  had  cleared  a  little,  though  a  rivulet 
of  burning  gasoline  ran  from  the  wreck  to  a  pool 
of  flame  it  was  feeding  in  the  road.  The  front 
cushions  and  woodwork  had  caught  fire  and  a 
couple  of  labourers,  panting  with  the  run  across  the 
fields,  were  vainly  belabouring  the  flames  with 
brushwood.  From  beneath  the  overturned  tonneau 
projected  the  lower  part  of  a  man's  leg,  clad  in  a 
brown  puttee  and  a  russet  shoe.  Ward's  driver 
had  brought  his  tools;  had  jacked  up  the  car  as 
high  as  possible;  but  was  still  unable  to  release 
the  imprisoned  body. 

"I  have  seized  that  foot  and  pulled  with  all 
my  strength,"  he  said,  "and  I  cannot  make  him 
move  one  centimetre.  It  is  necessary  that  as  many 
people  as  possible  lay  hold  of  the  car  on  the  side 
away  from  the  fire  and  all  lift  together.  Yes," 
he  added,  "and  very  soon!" 

Some  carters  had  come  from  the  road  and  one 
of  them  lay  full  length  on  the  ground  peering  be- 
neath the  wreck.  "It  is  the  head  of  monsieur," 
explained  this  one;  "it  is  the  head  of  monsieur 
which  is  fastened  under  there." 

"Eh,  but  you  are  wiser  than  Clemenceau!"  said 
the  chauffeur.  "Get  up,  my  ancient,  and  you  there, 


£6  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

with  the  brushwood,  let  the  fire  go  for  a  moment 
and  help,  when  I  say  the  word.  And  you,  mon- 
sieur," he  turned  to  Ward,  "if  you  please,  will  you 
pull  with  me  upon  the  ankle  here  at  the  right 
moment?" 

The  carters,  the  labourers,  the  men  from  the 
other  automobile,  and  I  laid  hold  of  the  car  together. 

"Now,  then,  messieurs,  LIFT!" 

Stifled  with  the  gasoline  smoke,  we  obeyed.  One 
or  two  hands  were  scorched  and  our  eyes  smarted 
blindingly,  but  we  gave  a  mighty  heave,  and  felt 
the  car  rising. 

'  «Vell  done!"  cried  the  chauffeur.  "Well  done! 
But  a  little  more!  The  smallest  fraction — HA! 
It  is  finished,  messieurs!" 

We  staggered  back,  coughing  and  wiping  our 
eyes.  For  a  minute  or  two  I  could  not  see  at  all, 
and  was  busy  with  a  handkerchief. 

Ward  laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder. 

"Do  you  know  who  it  is?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  of  course,"  I  answered. 

When  I  could  see  again,  I  found  that  I  was  look- 
ing almost  straight  down  into  the  upturned  face 
of  Larrabee  Harman,  and  I  cannot  better  express 
what  this  man  had  come  to  be,  and  what  the  degrada- 


CHAPTER  TWO  27 

tion  of  his  life  had  written  upon  him,  than  by  say- 
ing that  the  dreadful  thing  I  looked  upon  now  was 
no  more  horrible  a  sight  than  the  face  I  had  seen, 
fresh  from  the  valet  and  smiling  in  ugly  pride  at 
the  starers,  as  he  passed  the  terrace  of  Larue  on 
the  day  before  the  Grand  Prix. 

We  helped  to  carry  him  to  the  doctor's  car,  and 
to  lift  the  dancer  into  Ward's,  and  to  get  both  of 
them  out  again  at  the  hospital  at  Versailles,  where 
they  were  taken.  Then,  with  no  need  to  ask  each 
other  if  we  should  abandon  our  plan  to  breakfast 
in  the  country,  we  turned  toward  Paris,  and  rolled 
along  almost  to  the  barriers  in  silence. 

"Did  it  seem  to  you,"  said  George  finally,  "that 
a  man  so  frightfully  injured  could  have  any  chance 
of  getting  well?" 

"No,"  I  answered.  "I  thought  he  was  dying 
as  we  carried  him  into  the  hospital." 

"So  did  I.  The  top  of  his  head  seemed  all  crushed 
in — Whew!"  He  broke  off,  shivering,  and  wiped 
his  brow.  After  a  pause  he  added  thoughtfully, 
"It  will  be  a  great  thing  for  Louise." 

Louise  was  the  name  of  his  second  cousin,  the 
girl  who  had  done  battle  with  all  her  family  and 


28  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

then  run  away  from  them  to  be  Larrabee  Harman 's 
wife.  Remembering  the  stir  that  her  application 
for  divorce  had  made,  I  did  not  understand  how 
Harman's  death  could  benefit  her,  unless  George 
had  some  reason  to  believe  that  he  had  made  a 
will  in  her  favour.  However,  the  remark  had  been 
made  more  to  himself  than  to  me  and  I  did  not 
respond. 

The  morning  papers  flared  once  more  with  the 
name  of  Larrabee  Harman,  and  we  read  that  there 
was  "no  hope  of  his  surviving."  Ironic  phrase! 
There  was  not  a  soul  on  earth  that  day  who  could 
have  hoped  for  his  recovery,  or  who — for  his  sake 
—cared  two  straws  whether  he  lived  or  died.  And 
the  dancer  had  been  right;  one  of  her  legs  was 
badly  broken:  she  would  never  dance  again. 

Evening  papers  reported  that  Harman  was  "lin- 
gering." He  was  lingering  the  next  day.  He  was 
lingering  the  next  week,  and  the  end  of  a  month 
saw  him  still  "lingering."  Then  I  went  down  to 
Capri,  where — for  he  had  been  after  all  the  merest 
episode  to  me — I  was  pleased  to  forget  all  about  himc 


CHAPTER  HI 

A  GREAT  many  people  keep  their  friends 
in  mind  by  writing  to  them,  but  more 
do  not;  and  Ward  and  I  belong  to  the 
majority.  After  my  departure  from  Paris  I  had 
but  one  missive  from  him,  a  short  note,  written  at 
the  request  of  his  sister,  asking  me  to  be  on  the 
lookout  for  Italian  earrings,  to  add  to  her  collec- 
tion of  old  jewels.  So,  from  time  to  time,  I  sent 
her  what  I  could  find  about  Capri  or  in  Naples, 
and  she  responded  with  neat  little  letters  of  ac- 
knowledgment . 

Two  years  I  stayed  on  Capri,  eating  the  lotus 
which  grows  on  that  happy  island,  and  painting 
very  little — only  enough,  indeed,  to  be  remembered 
at  the  Salon  and  not  so  much  as  knowing  how 
kindly  or  unkindly  they  hung  my  pictures  there. 
But  even  on  Capri,  people  sometimes  hear  the 
call  of  Paris  and  wish  to  be  in  that  unending  move- 
ment: to  hear  the  multitudinous  rumble,  to  watch 
the  procession  from  a  cafe  terrace  and  to  dine  at 
Foyot's.  So  there  came  at  last  a  fine  day  when  I, 

29 


30  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNEY 

knowing  that  the  horse-chestnuts  were  in  bloom 
along  the  Champs  Elysees,  threw  my  rope-soled 
shoes  to  a  beggar,  packed  a  rusty  trunk,  and  was 
off  for  the  banks  of  the  Seine. 

My  arrival — just  the  drive  from  the  Gare  de 
Lyon  to  my  studio — was  like  the  shock  of  surf 
on  a  bather's  breast. 

The  stir  and  life,  the  cheerful  energy  of  the 
streets,  put  stir  and  life  and  cheerful  energy  into 
me.  I  felt  the  itch  to  work  again,  to  be  at  it,  at  it 
in  earnest — to  lose  no  hour  of  daylight,  and  to 
paint  better  than  I  had  painted! 

Paris  having  given  me  this  impetus,  I  dared  not 
tempt  her  further,  nor  allow  the  edge  of  my  eager- 
ness time  to  blunt;  therefore,  at  the  end  of  a  fort- 
night, I  went  over  into  Normandy  and  deposited 
that  rusty  trunk  of  mine  in  a  corner  of  the  summer 
pavilion  in  the  courtyard  of  Madame  Brossard's 
inn,  Les  Trois  Pigeons,  in  a  woodland  neighbor- 
hood that  is  there.  Here  I  had  painted  through 
a  prolific  summer  of  my  youth,  and  I  was  glad  to 
find — as  I  had  hoped — nothing  changed;  for  the 
place  was  dear  to  me.  Madame  Brossard  (dark, 
thin,  demure  as  of  yore,  a  fine-looking  woman  with 
a  fine  manner  and  much  the  flavour  of  old  Norman 


CHAPTER  THREE  31 

portraits)  gave  me  a  pleasant  welcome,  remember- 
ing me  readily  but  without  surprise,  while  Amedee, 
the  antique  servitor,  cackled  over  me  and  was  as 
proud  of  my  advent  as  if  I  had  been  a  new  egg  and 
he  had  laid  me.  The  simile  is  grotesque;  but  Amedee 
PS  the  most  henlike  waiter  in  France. 

He  is  a  white-haired,  fat  old  fellow,  always  well- 
ihaved;  as  neat  as  a  billiard-ball.  In  the  daytime, 
when  he  is  partly  porter,  he  wears  a  black  tie,  a 
gray  waistcoat  broadly  striped  with  scarlet,  and, 
from  waist  to  feet,  a  white  apron  like  a  skirt,  and 
so  competently  encircling  that  his  trousers  are  of 
mere  conventionality  and  no  real  necessity;  but 
after  six  o'clock  (becoming  altogether  a  maitre 
d'hotel)  he  is  clad  as  any  other  formal  gentleman. 
At  all  times  he  wears  a  fresh  table-cloth  over  his 
arm,  keeping  an  exaggerated  pile  of  them  ready 
at  hand  on  a  ledge  in  one  of  the  little  bowers  of 
the  courtyard,  so  that  he  may  never  be  shamed 
by  getting  caught  without  one. 

His  conception  of  life  is  that  all  worthy  persons 
were  created  as  receptacles  for  food  and  drink;  and 
five  minutes  after  my  arrival  he  had  me  seated  (in 
spite  of  some  meek  protests)  in  a  wicker  chair  with 
a  pitcher  of  the  right  Three  I*-  jteons  cider  on  the 


32  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

table  before  me,  while  he  subtly  dictated  what 
manner  of  dinner  I  should  eat.  For  this  interval 
Amedee's  exuburance  was  sobered  and  his  bandinage 
dismissed  as  being  mere  garniture,  the  questions 
now  before  us  concerning  grave  and  inward  matters. 
His  suggestions  were  deferential  but  insistent;  his 
manner  was  that  of  a  prime  minister  who  goes 
through  the  form  of  convincing  the  sovereign. 
He  greeted  each  of  his  own  decisions  with  a  very 
loud  "Bien!"  as  if  startled  by  the  brilliancy  of  my 
selections,  and,  the  menu  being  concluded,  exploded 
a  whole  volley  of  "Biens"  and  set  off  violently  to 
instruct  old  Gaston,  the  cook. 

That  is  Amedee's  way;  he  always  starts  violently 
for  anywhere  he  means  to  go.  He  is  a  little  lame 
and  his  progress  more  or  less  sidelong,  but  if  you 
call  him,  or  new  guests  arrive  at  the  inn,  or  he 
receives  an  order  from  Madame  Brossard,  he  gives 
the  effect  of  running  by  a  sudden  movement  of 
the  whole  body  like  that  of  a  man  about  to  run, 
and  moves  off  using  the  gestures  of  a  man  who 
is  running;  after  which  he  proceeds  to  his  destina- 
tion at  an  exquisite  leisure.  Remembering  this  old 
habit  of  his,  it  was  with  joy  that  I  noted  his  head- 
long departure.  Soi  *e  ten  feet  of  his  progress  ac- 


CHAPTER  THREE  33 

complished,  he  halted  (for  no  purpose  but  to  scratch 
his  head  the  more  luxuriously);  next,  strayed  from 
the  path  to  contemplate  a  rose-bush,  and,  selecting 
a  leaf  with  careful  deliberation,  placed  it  in  his 
mouth  and  continued  meditatively  upon  his  way 
to  the  kitchen. 

I  chuckled  within  me;  it  was  good  to  be  back  at 
Madame  Brossard's. 

The  courtyard  was  more  a  garden;  bright  with 
rows  of  flowers  in  formal  little  beds  and  blossom- 
ing up  from  big  green  tubs,  from  red  jars,  and 
also  from  two  brightly  painted  wheel-barrows.  A 
long  arbour  offered  a  shelter  of  vines  for  those  who 
might  choose  to  dine,  breakfast,  or  lounge  beneath, 
and,  here  and  there  among  the  shrubberies,  you 
might  come  upon  a  latticed  bower,  thatched  with 
straw.  My  own  pavilion  (hah*  bedroom,  half 
studio)  was  set  in  the  midst  of  all  and  had  a  small 
porch  of  its  own  with  a  rich  curtain  of.  climbing 
honeysuckle  for  a  screen  from  the  rest  of  the 
courtyard. 

The  inn  itself  is  gray  with  age,  the  roof  sagging 
pleasantly  here  and  there;  and  an  old  wooden  gal- 
lery runs  the  length  of  each  wing,  the  guest-cham- 
bers of  the  upper  story  opening  upon  it  like  the 


34  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

deck-rooms  of  a  steamer,  with  boxes  of  tulips  and 
hyacinths  along  the  gallery  railings  and  window 
ledges  for  the  gayest  of  border-lines. 

Beyond  the  great  open  archway,  which  gives 
entrance  to  the  courtyard,  lies  the  quiet  country 
road;  passing  this,  my  eyes  followed  the  wide 
sweep  of  poppy-sprinkled  fields  to  a  line  of  low 
green  hills;  and  there  was  the  edge  of  the  forest 
sheltering  those  woodland  interiors  which  I  had 
long  ago  tried  to  paint,  and  where  I  should  be  at 
work  to-morrow. 

In  the  course  of  time,  and  well  within  the  bright 
twilight,  Amedee  spread  the  crisp  white  cloth  and 
served  me  at  a  table  on  my  pavilion  porch.  He 
feigned  anxiety  lest  I  should  find  certain  dishes 
(those  which  he  knew  were  most  delectable)  not 
to  my  taste,  but  was  obviously  so  distended  with 
fatuous  pride  over  the  whole  meal  that  it  became 
a  temptation  to  denounce  at  least  some  trifling 
sauce  or  garnishment;  nevertheless,  so  much  men- 
dacity proved  beyond  me  and  I  spared  him  and  my 
own  conscience.  This  puffed-uppedness  of  his  was 
to  be  observed  only  in  his  expression  of  manner, 
for  during  the  consumption  of  food  it  was  his  worthy 
custom  to  practise  a  ceremonious,  nay,  a  reverential, 


CHAPTER  THREE  35 

hush,  and  he  never  offered  (or  approved)  conver- 
sation until  he  had  prepared  the  salad.  That 
accomplished,  however,  and  the  water  bubbling  in 
the  coffee  machine,  he  readily  favoured  me  with 
a  discourse  on  the  decline  in  glory  of  Les  Trois 
Pigeons. 

"Monsieur,  it  is  the  automobiles;  they  have  done 
it.  Formerly,  as  when  monsieur  was  here,  the 
painters  came  from  Paris.  They  would  come  in 
the  spring  and  would  stay  until  the  autumn  rains. 
What  busy  times  and  what  drolleries!  Ah,  it  was 
gay  in  those  days!  Monsieur  remembers  well. 
Ha,  Ha!  But  now,  I  think,  the  automobiles  have 
frightened  away  the  painters;  at  least  they  do  not 
come  any  more.  And  the  automobiles  themselves; 
they  come  sometimes  for  lunch,  a  few,  but  they 
love  better  the  seashore,  and  we  are  just  close 
enough  to  be  too  far  away.  Those  automobiles, 
they  love  the  big  new  hotels  and  the  casinos  with 
roulette.  They  eat  hastily,  gulp  down  a  liqueur, 
and  pouf!  off  they  rush  for  Trouville,  for  Houlgate 
— for  heaven  knows  where!  And  even  the  automo- 
biles do  not  come  so  frequenlty  as  they  did.  Our 
road  used  to  be  the  best  from  Lisieux  to  Beuzeval, 
but  now  the  maps  recommend  another.  Th^y  pass 


36  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

us  by,  and  yet  yonder — only  a  few  kilometres — is 
the  coast  with  its  thousands.  We  are  near  the 
world  but  out  of  it,  monsieur." 

He  poured  my  coffee;  dropped  a  lump  of  sugar 
from  the  tongs  with  a  benevolent  gesture — "One 
lump:  always  the  same.  Monsieur  sees  that  I  re- 
member well,  ha?" — and  the  twilight  having  fallen, 
he  lit  two  orange-shaded  candles  and  my  cigar 
with  the  same  match.  The  night  was  so  quiet 
that  the  candle-lights  burned  as  steadily  as  flames 
in  a  globe,  yet  the  air  was  spiced  with  a  cool  fra- 
grance, and  through  the  honeysuckle  leaves  above 
me  I  saw,  as  I  leaned  back  in  my  wicker  chair,  a 
glimmer  of  kindly  stars. 

"Very  comfortably  out  of  the  world,  Amedee," 
I  said.  "It  seems  to  me  I  have  it  all  to  myself." 

"Unhappily,  yes!"  he  exclaimed;  then  excused 
himself,  chuckling.  "I  should  have  said  that  we 
should  be  happier  if  we  had  many  like  monsieur. 
But  it  is  early  in  the  season  to  despair.  Then, 
too,  our  best  suite  is  already  engaged." 

"By  whom?" 

"Two  men  of  science  who  arrive  next  week. 
One  is  a  great  man.  Madame  Brossard  is  pleased 
that  he  is  coming  to  Les  Trois  Pigeons,  but  I  tell 


CHAPTER  THE!  37 

her  it  is  only  natural.  He  comes  now  for  the  first 
time  because  he  likes  the  quiet,  but  he  will  come 
again,  like  monsieur,  because  he  has  been  here 
before.  That  is  what  I  always  say:  'Any  one  who 
has  been  here  must  come  again.'  The  problem  is 
only  to  get  them  to  come  the  first  time.  Truly!" 

"Who  is  the  great  man,  Amedee?" 

"Ah!    A  distinguished  professor  of  science.  Truly." 

"What  science?" 

"I  do  not  know.  But  he  is  a  member  of  the 
Institute.  Monsieur  must  have  heard  of  that  great 
Professor  Keredec?" 

"The  name  is  known.    W7ho  is  the  other?" 

"A  friend  of  his.  I  do  not  know.  All  the  upper 
floor  of  the  east  wing  they  have  taken — the  Grande 
Suite — those  two  and  their  valet-de-chambre.  That 
is  truly  the  way  in  modern  times — the  philosophers 
are  rich  men." 

"Yes,"  I  sighed.  "Only  the  painters  are  poor 
nowadays." 

"Ha,  ha,  monsieur!"    Amedee  laughed  cunningly. 

"It  was  always  easy  to  see  that  monsieur  only 
amuses  himself  with  his  painting." 

"Thank  you,  Amedee,"  I  responded.  "I  have 
amused  other  people  with  it  too,  I  fear." 


38  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

"Oh,  without  doubt!"  he  agreed  graciously,  as 
he  folded  the  cloth.  I  have  always  tried  to  believe 
that  it  was  not  so  much  my  pictures  as  the  fact 
that  I  paid  my  bills  the  day  they  were  presented 
which  convinced  everybody  about  Les  Trois  Pig- 
eons that  I  was  an  amateur.  But  I  never  became 
happily  enough  settled  in  this  opinion  to  risk  press- 
ing an  investigation;  and  it  was  a  relief  that  Amedee 
changed  the  subject. 

"Monsieur  remembers  the  Chateau  de  Quesnay 
— at  the  crest  of  the  hill  on  the  road  north  of 
Dives?" 

"I  remember." 

"It  is  occupied  this  season  by  some  rich 
Americans." 

"How  do  you  know  they  are  rich?" 

"Dieu  de  Dieu!"  The  old  fellow  appealed  to 
heaven.  "But  they  are  Americans!" 

"And  therefore  millionaires.    Perfectly,  Amedee." 

"Perfectly,  monsieur.  Perhaps  monsieur  knows 
them." 

"Yes,  I  know  them." 

"Truly!"  He  affected  dejection.  "And  poor 
Madame  Brossard  thought  monsieur  had  returned 
to  our  old  hotel  because  he  liked  it,  and  remembered 


CHAPTER  THREE  39 

our  wine  of  Beaune  and  the  good  beds  and  old 
Gaston's  cooking!" 

"Do  not  weep,  Amedee,"  I  said.  "I  have  come 
to  paint;  not  because  I  know  the  people  who  have 
taken  Quesnay."  And  I  added:  "I  may  not  see 
them  at  all." 

In  truth  I  thought  that  very  probable.  Miss 
Elizabeth  had  mentioned  in  one  of  her  notes  that 
Ward  had  leased  Quesnay,  but  I  had  not  sought 
quarters  at  Les  Trois  Pigeons  because  it  stood 
within  walking  distance  of  the  chateau.  In  my 
industrious  frame  of  mind  that  circumstance  seemed 
almost  a  drawback.  Miss  Elizabeth,  ever  hos- 
pitable to  those  whom  she  noticed  at  all,  would 
be  doubly  so  in  the  country,  as  people  always  are; 
and  I  wanted  all  my  time  to  myself — no  very 
selfish  wish  since  my  time  was  not  conceivably  of 
value  to  any  one  else.  I  thought  it  wise  to  leave 
any  encounter  with  the  lady  to  chance,  and  as 
the  by-paths  of  the  country-side  were  many  and 
intricate,  I  intended,  without  ungallantry,  to  render 
the  chance  remote.  George  himself  had  just  sailed 
on  a  business  trip  to  America,  as  I  knew  from  her 
last  missive;  and  until  his  return,  I  should  put 
in  all  my  time  at  painting  and  nothing  else,  though 


40  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

I  liked  his  sister,  as  I  have  said,  and  thought  of 

her — often. 

Amedee  doubted  my  sincerity,  however,  for  he 

laughed  incredulously. 

"Eh,  well,  monsieur  enjoys  saying  it!" 
"Certainly.     It  is  a  pleasure  to  say  what  one 


means." 


"But  monsieur  could  not  mean  it.  Monsieur 
will  call  at  the  chateau  in  the  morning" — the  com- 
placent varlet  prophesied — "as  early  as  it  will  be 
polite.  I  am  sure  of  that.  Monsieur  is  not  at  all 
an  old  man;  no,  not  yet!  Even  if  he  were,  aha! 
no  one  could  possess  the  friendship  of  that  won- 
derful Madame  d'Armand  and  remain  away  from 
the  chateau." 

"Madame  d'Armand?"  I  said.  "That  is  not  the 
name.  You  mean  Mademoiselle  Ward." 

"No,  no!"  He  shook  his  head  and  his  fat  cheeks 
bulged  with  a  smile  which  I  believe  he  intended 
to  express  a  respectful  roguishness.  "Mademoiselle 
Ward"  (he  pronounced  it  "Ware")  "is  magnifi- 
cent; every  one  must  fly  to  obey  when  she  opens 
her  mouth.  If  she  did  not  like  the  ocean  there 
below  the  chateau,  the  ocean  would  have  to  move! 
It  needs  only  a  glance  to  perceive  that  Made' 


CHAPTER  THREE  41 

moiselle  Ward  is  a  great  lady — but  Madame  d'Ar- 
mand!  AHA!"  He  rolled  his  round  eyes  to  an 
effect  of  unspeakable  admiration,  and  with  a  gesture 
indicated  that  he  would  have  kissed  his  hand  to 
the  stars,  had  that  been  properly  reverential  to 
Madame  d'Armand.  "But  monsieur  knows  very 
well  for  himself!" 

"Monsieur  knows  that  you  are  very  confusing- 
even  for  a  maitre  d'hotel.  We  were  speaking  of 
the  present  chatelaine  of  Quesnay,  Mademoiselle 
Ward.  I  have  never  heard  of  Madame  d'Armand.'5 

"Monsieur  is  serious?" 

"Truly!"  I  answered,  making  bold  to  quote  his 
shibboleth. 

"Then  monsieur  has  truly  much  to  live  for. 
Truly!"  he  chuckled  openly,  convinced  that  he 
had  obtained  a  marked  advantage  in  a  conflict 
of  wits,  shaking  his  big  head  from  side  to  side  with 
an  exasperating  air  of  knowingness.  "Ah,  truly! 
When  that  lady  drives  by,  some  day,  in  the  car- 
riage from  the  chateau — eh?  Then  monsieur  wil1 
see  how  much  he  has  to  live  for.  Truly,  truly, 
truly!" 

He  had  cleared  the  table,  and  now,  with  a  final 
explosion  of  the  word  which  gave  him  such  im- 


42  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

moderate  satisfaction,  he  lifted  the  tray  and  made 
one  of  his  precipitate  departures. 

"Am6dee,"  I  said,  as  he  slackened  down  to  his 
sidelong  leisure. 

"Monsieur?" 

"Who  is  Madame  d'Armand?" 

"A  guest  of  Mademoiselle  Ward  at  Quesnay. 
In  fact,  she  is  in  charge  of  the  chateau,  since  Made- 
moiselle Ward  is,  for  the  time,  away." 

"Is  she  a  Frenchwoman?" 

"It  seems  not.  In  fact,  she  is  an  American, 
though  she  dresses  with  so  much  of  taste.  Ah, 
Madame  Brossard  admits  it,  and  Madame  Brossard 
knows  the  art  of  dressing,  for  she  spends  a  week 
of  every  winter  in  Rouen — and  besides  there  is 
Trouville  itself  only  some  kilometres  distant.  Ma- 
dame Brossard  says  that  Mademoiselle  Ward  dresses 
with  richness  and  splendour  and  Madame  d'Armand 
with  economy,  but  beauty.  Those  were  the  words 
used  by  Madame  Brossard.  Truly." 

"Madame  d'Armand's  name  is  French,"  I  ob- 
served. 

"Yes,  that  is  true,"  said  Am£dee  thoughtfully. 
"No  one  can  deny  it;  it  is  a  French  name."  He 
rested  the  tray  upon  a  stump  near  by  and  scratched 


CHAPTER  THREE  43 

his  head.  "I  do  not  understand  how  that  can  be," 
he  continued  slowly.  "Jean  Ferret,  who  is  chief 
gardener  at  the  chateau,  is  an  acquaintance  of 
mine.  We  sometimes  have  a  cup  of  cider  at  Pere 
Baudry's,  a  kilometre  down  the  road  from  here; 
and  Jean  Ferret  has  told  me  that  she  is  an  American. 
And  yet,  as  you  say,  monsieur,  the  name  is  French. 
Perhaps  she  is  French  after  all." 

"I  believe,"  said  I,  'that  if  I  struggled  a  few 
days  over  this  puzzle,  I  might  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  Madame  d'Armand  is  an  American 
lady  who  has  married  a  Frenchman." 

The  old  man  uttered  an  exclamation  of  triumph. 

"Ha!  without  doubt!  Truly  she  must  be  an 
American  lady  who  has  married  a  Frenchman. 
Monsieur  has  already  solved  the  puzzle.  Truly, 
truly!"  And  he  trulied  himself  across  the  darkness, 
to  emerge  in  the  light  of  the  open  door  of  the  kitchen 
with  the  word  still  rumbling  in  his  throat. 

Now  for  a  time  there  came  the  clinking  of  dishes, 
sounds  as  of  pans  and  kettles  being  scoured,  the 
rolling  gutturals  of  old  Gaston,  the  cook,  and  the 
treble  pipings  of  young  "Glouglou,"  his  grandchild 
and  scullion.  After  a  while  the  oblong  of  light 
from  the  kitchen  door  disappeared;  the  voices 


44  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

departed;  the  stillness  of  the  dark  descended,  and 
with  it  that  unreasonable  sense  of  pathos  which 
night  in  the  country  brings  to  the  heart  of  a  wan- 
derer. Then,  out  of  the  lonely  silence,  there  issued 
a  strange,  incongruous  sound  as  an  execrable  voice 
essayed  to  produce  the  semblance  of  an  air  odiously 
familiar  about  the  streets  of  Paris  some  three  years 
past,  and  I  became  aware  of  a  smell  of  some  dread- 
ful thing  burning.  Beneath  the  arbour  I  perceived 
a  glowing  spark  which  seemed  to  bear  a  certain 
relation  to  an  oval  whitish  patch  suggesting  the 
front  of  a  shirt.  It  was  Amedee,  at  ease,  smoking 
his  cigarette  after  the  day's  work  and  convinced 
that  he  was  singing. 

"Pour  qu'j'finisse 
Mon  service 
Au  Tonkin  je  suis  parti 


Ah!  quel  beau  pays,  mesdames! 
C'esi  Fparadis  des  p'lites  femmes!" 

I  rose  from  the  chair  on  my  little  porch,  to  go 
to  bed;  but  I  was  reminded  of  something,  and 
called  to  him. 

"Monsieur?"  his  voice  came  briskly. 


CHAPTER  THREE  45 

"How  often  do  you  see  your  friend,  Jean  Ferret, 
the  gardener  of  Quesnay?" 

"Frequently,  monsieur.  To-morrow  morning  I 
could  easily  carry  a  message  if 

"That  is  precisely  what  I  do  not  wish.  And 
you  may  as  well  not  mention  me  at  all  when  you 
meet  him." 

"It  is  understood.     Perfectly." 

"If  it  is  well  understood,  there  will  be  a  beau- 
tiful present  for  a  good  maitre  d'hdtel  some  day." 

"Thank  you,  monsieur." 

"Good  night,  Amedee." 

"Good  night,  monsieur." 

Falling  to  sleep  has  always  been  an  intricate 
matter  with  me:  I  liken  it  to  a  nightly  adventure 
in  an  enchanted  palace.  Weary-limbed  and  with 
burning  eyelids,  after  long  waiting  in  the  outer 
court  of  wakefulness,  I  enter  a  dim,  cool  ante- 
chamber where  the  heavy  garment  of  the  body  is 
left  behind  and  where,  perhaps,  some  acquaintance 
or  friend  greets  me  with  a  familiar  speech  or  a  bit 
of  nonsense — or  an  unseen  orchestra  may  play 
music  that  I  know.  From  here  I  go  into  a  spacious 
apartment  where  the  air  and  light  are  of  a  fine 


46  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

clarity,  for  it  is  the  hall  of  revelations,  and  in  it 
the  secrets  of  secrets  are  told,  mysteries  are  resolved, 
perplexities  cleared  up,  and  sometimes  I  learn  what 
to  do  about  a  picture  that  has  bothered  me.  This 
is  where  I  would  linger,  for  beyond  it  I  walk  among 
crowding  fantasies,  delusions,  terrors  and  shame,  to 
a  curtain  of  darkness  where  they  take  my  memory 
from  me,  and  I  know  nothing  of  my  own  ad- 
ventures  until  I  am  pushed  out  of  a  secret  door 
into  the  morning  sunlight.  Amedee  was  the  ac- 
quaintance who  met  me  in  the  antechamber  to-night. 
He  remarked  that  Madame  d'Armand  was  the 
most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world,  and  vanished. 
And  in  the  hall  of  revelations  I  thought  that  I 
found  a  statue  of  her — but  it  was  veiled.  I  wished 
to  remove  the  veil,  but  a  passing  stranger  stopped 
and  told  me  laughingly  that  the  veil  was  all  that 
would  ever  be  revealed  of  her  to  me — of  her,  or 
any  other  woman! 


CHAPTER  IV 

I  WAS  up  with  the  birds  in  the  morning;  had 
my  breakfast  with  them — a  very  drowsy-eyed 
Amedee  assisting — and  made  off  for  the  forest 
to  get  the  sunrise  through  the  branches,  a  pack 
on  my  back  and  three  sandwiches  for  lunch  in  my 
pocket.  I  returned  only  with  the  failing  light  of 
evening,  cheerfully  tired  and  ready  for  a  fine  dinner 
and  an  early  bed,  both  of  which  the  good  inn  sup- 
plied. It  was  my  daily  programme;  a  healthy  life 
"far  from  the  world,"  as  Amedee.  said,  and  I  was 
sorry  when  the  serpent  entered  and  disturbed  it, 
though  he  was  my  own.  He  is  a  pet  of  mine;  has 
been  with  me  since  my  childhood.  He  leaves  me 
when  I  live  alone,  for  he  loves  company,  but  returns 
whenever  my  kind  are  about  me.  There  are  many 
names  for  snakes  of  his  breed,  but,  to  deal  char- 
itably with  myself,  I  call  mine  Interest-In-Other- 
People's-Affairs, 

One  evening  I  returned  to  find  a  big  van  from 
Dives,  the  nearest  railway  station,  drawn  up  in  the 
courtyard  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  leading  to  the 

47 


48  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

gallery,  and  all  of  the  people  of  the  inn,  from  Ma- 
dame Brossard  (who  directed)  to  Glouglou  (who 
madly  attempted  the  heaviest  pieces),  busily  in- 
stalling trunks,  bags,  and  packing-cases  in  the  suite 
engaged  for  the  "great  man  of  science"  on  the 
second  floor  of  the  east  wing  of  the  building.  Neither 
the  great  man  nor  his  companion  was  to  be  seen, 
however,  both  having  retired  to  their  rooms  im- 
mediately upon  their  arrival — so  Amedee  informed 
me,  as  he  wiped  his  brow  after  staggering  up  the 
steps  under  a  load  of  books  wrapped  in  sacking. 

I  made  my  evening  ablutions  removing  a  Joseph's 
coat  of  dust  and  paint;  and  came  forth  from  my 
pavilion,  hoping  that  Professor  Keredec  and  his 
friend  would  not  mind  eating  in  the  same  garden 
with  a  man  in  a  corduroy  jacket  and  knickerbockers; 
but  the  gentlemen  continued  invisible  to  the  public 

j* 

eye,  and  mine  was  the  only  table  set  for  dinner 
in  the  garden.  Up-stairs  the  curtains  were  care- 
fully drawn  across  all  the  windows  of  the  east  wing; 
little  leaks  of  orange,  here  and  there,  betraying  the 
lights  within.  Glouglou,  bearing  a  tray  of  covered 
dishes,  was  just  entering  the  salon  of  the  "Grande 
Suite,"  and  the  door  closed  quickly  after  him. 

"It  is  to  be  supposed  that  Professor  Keredec  and 


CHAPTER  FOUR  49 

his  friend  are  fatigued  with  their  journey  from 
Paris?"  I  began,  a  little  later. 

* 'Monsieur,  they  did  not  seem  fatigued,"  said 
Amedee. 

"But  they  dine  in  their  own  rooms  to-night." 

"Every  night,  monsieur.  It  is  the  order  of  Pro- 
fessor Keredec.  And  with  their  own  valet-de- 
chambre  to  serve  them.  Eh?"  He  poured  my 
coffee  solemnly.  "That  is  mysterious,  to  say  the 
least,  isn't  it?" 

"To  say  the  very  least,"  I  agreed. 

"Monsieur  the  professor  is  a  man  of  secrets, 
it  appears,"  continued  Amedee.  "When  he  wrote 
to  Madame  Brossard  engaging  his  rooms,  he  in- 
structed her  to  be  careful  that  none  of  us  should 
mention  even  his  name;  and  to-day  when  he  came, 
he  spoke  of  his  anxiety  on  that  point." 

"But  you  did  mention  it." 

"To  whom,  monsieur?"  asked  the  old  fellow 
blankly. 

"To  me." 

"But  I  told  him  I  had  not,"  said  Am6dee  placidly. 
"It  is  the  same  thing." 

"I  wonder,"  I  began,  struck  by  a  sudden  thought, 
"if  it  will  prove  quite  the  same  thing  in  my  own 


50  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

case.  I  suppose  you  have  not  mentioned  the  cir- 
cumstance of  my  being  here  to  your  friend,  Jean 
Ferret  of  Quesnay?" 

He  looked  at  me  reproachfully.  "Has  monsieur 
been  troubled  by  the  people  of  the  chateau?" 

"  Troubled'  by  them?" 

"Have  they  come  to  seek  out  monsieur  and 
disturb  him?  Have  they  done  anything  whatever 
to  show  that  they  have  heard  monsieur  is  here?" 

"No,  certainly  they  haven't,"  I  was  obliged  to 
retract  at  once.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  Amedee." 

"Ah,  monsieur!"  He  made  a  deprecatory  bow 
(which  plunged  me  still  deeper  in  shame),  struck 
a  match,  and  offered  a  light  for  my  cigar  with 
a  forgiving  hand.  "All  the  same,"  he  pursued,  "it 
seems  very  mysterious — this  Keredec  affair!" 

"To  comprehend  a  great  man,  Amedee,"  I  said, 
"is  the  next  thing  to  sharing  his  greatness." 

He  blinked  slightly,  pondered  a  moment  upon 
this  sententious  drivel,  then  very  properly  ignored 
it,  reverting  to  his  puzzle. 

"But  is  it  not  incomprehensible  that  people  should 
eat  indoors  this  fine  weather?" 

I  admitted  that  it  was.  I  knew  very  well  how 
hot  and  stuffy  the  salon  of  Madame  Brossard's 


CHAPTER  FOUR  51 

"Grande  Suite"  must  be,  while  the  garden  was 
fragrant  in  the  warm,  dry  night,  and  the  outdoor 
air  like  a  gentle  tonic.  Nevertheless,  Professor 
Keredec  and  his  friend  preferred  the  salon. 

When  a  man  is  leading  a  very  quiet  and  isolated 
life,  it  is  inconceivable  what  trifles  will  occupy  and 
concentrate  his  attention.  The  smaller  the  com- 
munity the  more  blowzy  with  gossip  you  are  sure 
to  find  it;  and  I  have  little  doubt  that  when  Friday 
learned  enough  English,  one  of  the  first  things  Crusoe 
did  was  to  tell  him  some  scandal  about  the  goat. 
Thus,  though  I  treated  the  "Keredec  affair"  with 
a  seeming  airiness  to  Amedee,  I  cunningly  drew 
the  faithful  rascal  out,  and  fed  my  curiosity  upon 
his  own  (which,  as  time  went  on  and  the  mystery 
deepened,  seemed  likely  to  burst  him),  until,  vir- 
tually, I  was  receiving,  every  evening  at  dinner,  a 
detailed  report  of  the  day's  doings  of  Professor 
Keredec  and  his  companion. 

The  reports  were  voluminous,  the  details  few. 
The  two  gentlemen,  as  Amedee  would  relate,  spent 
their  forenoons  over  books  and  writing  in  their 
rooms.  Professor  Keredec's  voice  could  often  be 
heard  in  every  part  of  the  inn;  at  times  holding 


52  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

forth  with  such  protracted  vehemence  that  only  one 
explanation  would  suffice:  the  learned  man  was 
delivering  a  lecture  to  his  companion. 

"Say  then!"  exclaimed  Amedee — "what  king  of 
madness  is  that?  To  make  orations  for  only  one 
auditor!" 

He  brushed  away  my  suggestion  that  the  auditor 
might  be  a  stenographer  to  whom  the  professor 
was  dictating  chapters  for  a  new  book.  The  rela- 
tion between  the  two  men,  he  contended,  was  more 
like  that  between  teacher  and  pupil.  "But  a  pupil 
with  gray  hair!"  he  finished,  raising  his  fat  hands 
to  heaven.  "For  that  other  monsieur  has  hair  as 
gray  as  mine." 

"That  other  monsieur"  was  farther  described  as  a 
thin  man,  handsome,  but  with  a  "singular  air," 
nor  could  my  colleague  more  satisfactorily  define 
this  air,  though  he  made  a  racking  struggle  to  do  so. 

"In  what  does  the  peculiarity  of  his  manner  lie?" 
I  asked. 

"But  it  is  not  so  much  that  his  manner  is  pe- 
culiar, monsieur;  it  is  an  air  about  him  that  is 
singular.  Truly !" 

"But  how  is  it  singular?" 

"Monsieur,  it  is  very,  very  singular." 


CHAPTER  FOUR  53 

"You  do  not  understand,"  I  insisted.  "What 
kind  of  singularity  has  the  air  of  'that  other  mon- 
sieur'?" 

"It  has,"  replied  Amedee,  with  a  powerful  effort, 
"a  very  singular  singularity." 

This  was  as  near  as  he  could  come,  and,  fear- 
ful of  injuring  him,  I  abandoned  that  phase  of 
our  subject. 

The  valet-de-chambre  whom  my  fellow-lodgers 
had  brought  with  them  from  Paris  contributed 
nothing  to  the  inn's  knowledge  of  his  masters,  I 
learned.  This  struck  me  not  only  as  odd,  but 
unique,  for  French  servants  tell  one  another  every- 
thing, and  more — very  much  more.  "But  this 
is  a  silent  man,"  said  Amedee  impressively.  "Oh! 
very  silent!  He  shakes  his  head  wisely,  yet  he  will 
not  open  his  mouth.  However,  that  may  be  be- 
cause"— and  now  the  explanation  came — "because 
he  was  engaged  only  last  week  and  knows  nothing. 
Also,  he  is  but  temporary;  he  returns  to  Paris  soon 
and  Glouglou  is  to  serve  them." 

I  ascertained  that  although  "that  other  mon- 
sieur" had  gray  hair,  he  was  by  no  means  a  person 
of  great  age;  indeed,  Glouglou,  who  had  seen  him 
oftener  than  any  other  of  the  staff,  maintained 


54  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

that  he  was  quite  young.  Amedee's  own  oppor- 
tunities for  observation  had  been  limited.  Every 
afternoon  the  two  gentlemen  went  for  a  walk; 
but  they  always  came  down  from  the  gallery  so 
quickly,  he  declared,  and,  leaving  the  inn  by  a 
rear  entrance,  plunged  so  hastily  into  the  nearest 
by-path  leading  to  the  forest,  that  he  caught  little 
more  than  glimpses  of  them.  They  returned  after 
an  hour  or  so,  entering  the  inn  with  the  same  ap- 
pearance of  haste  to  be  out  of  sight,  the  professor 
always  talking,  "with  the  manner  of  an  orator, 
but  in  English."  Nevertheless,  Amedee  remarked, 
it  was  certain  that  Professor  Keredec's  friend  was 
neither  an  American  nor  an  Englishman. 
"Why  is  it  certain?"  I  asked. 
"Monsieur,  he  drinks  nothing  but  water,  he  does 
not  smoke,  and  Glouglou  says  he  speaks  very  pure 
French.'/ 

"Glouglou  is  an  authority  who  resolves  the  diffi- 
culty.   'That  other  monsieur'  is  a  Frenchman." 
"But,  monsieur,  he  is  smooth-shaven." 
"Perhaps  he  has  been  a  maitre  d'hdtel." 
"Eh!     I  wish  one  that  7  know  could  hope  to 
dress  as  well  when  he  retires !    Besides,  Glouglou  says 
that  other  monsieur  eats  his  soup  silently." 


CHAPTER  FOUR  55 

"I  can  find  no  flaw  in  the  deduction,"  I  said, 
rising  to  go  to  bed.  "We  must  leave  it  there  for 
to-night." 

The  next  evening  Amedee  allowed  me  to  per- 
ceive that  he  was  concealing  something  under  his 
arm  as  he  stoked  the  coffee-machine,  and  upon 
my  asking  what  it  was,  he  glanced  round  the  court- 
yard with  histrionic  slyness,  placed  the  object  on 
the  table  beside  my  cap,  and  stepped  back  to  watch 
the*  impression,  his  manner  that  of  one  who  de- 
claims: "At  last  the  missing  papers  are  before 
you!" 

"What  is  that?"  I  said. 

"It  is  a  book." 

"I  am  persuaded  by  your  candour,  Amedee,  as 
well  as  by  the  general  appearance  of  this  article," 
I  returned  as  I  picked  it  up,  "that  you  are  speaking 
the  truth.  But  why  do  you  bring  it  to  me?" 

"Monsieur,"  he  replied,  in  the  tones  of  an  old 
conspirator,  "this  afternoon  the  professor  and  that 
other  monsieur  went  as  usual  to  walk  in  the  forest." 
He  bent  over  me,  pretending  to  be  busy  with  the 
coffee-machine,  and  lowering  his  voice  to  a  hoarse 
whisper.  "When  they  returned,  this  book  fell  from 
the  pocket  of  that  other  moniseur's  coat  as  he 


56  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

ascended  the  stair,  and  he  did  not  notice.  Later 
I  shall  return  it  by  Glouglou,  but  I  thought  it  wise 
that  monsieur  should  see  it  for  himself." 

The  book  was  Wentworth's  Algebra — elementary 
principles.  Painful  recollections  of  my  boyhood  and 
the  binomial  theorem  rose  in  my  mind  as  I  let  the 
leaves  turn  under  my  fingers.  "What  do  you  make 
of  it?"  I  asked. 

His  tone  became  even  more  confidential.  "Part 
of  it,  monsieur,  is  in  English;  that  is  plain.  I  have 
found  an  English  word  in  it  that  I  know — the 
word  *O.'  But  much  of  the  printing  is  also  in 
Arabic." 

"Arabic!"  I  exclaimed. 

"Yes,  monsieur,  look  there."  He  laid  a  fat  fore- 
finger on  "(a  +  b)2  =  a2  +  2ab  +  b2."  "That  is 
Arabic.  Old  Gaston  has  been  to  Algeria,  and  he 
says  that  he  knows  Arabic  as  well  as  he  does  French. 
He  looked  at  the  book  and  told  me  it  was  Arabic. 
Truly!  Truly!" 

"Did  he  translate  any  of  it  for  you?" 

"No,  monsieur;  his  eyes  pained  him  this  after- 
noon. He  says  he  will  read  it  to-morrow." 

"But  you  must  return  the  book  to-night." 

"That  is  true.    Eh!    It  leaves  the  mystery  deeper 


CHAPTER  FOUR  57 

than  ever,  unless  monsieur  can  find  some  clue  in 
those  parts  of  the  book  that  are  English." 

I  shed  no  light  upon  him.  The  book  had  been 
Greek  to  me  in  my  tender  years;  it  was  a  pleasure 
now  to  leave  a  fellow-being  under  the  impression 
that  it  was  Arabic. 

But  the  volume  took  its  little  revenge  upon  me, 
for  it  increased  my  curiosity  about  Professor  Keredec 
and  "that  other  monsieur."  Why  were  two  grown 
men — one  an  eminent  psychologist  and  the  other  a 
gray-haired  youth  with  a  singular  air — carrying 
about  on  their  walks  a  text-book  for  the  instruction 
of  boys  of  thirteen  or  fourteen? 

The  next  day  that  curiosity  of  mine  was  piqued 
in  earnest.  It  rained  and  I  did  not  leave  the  inn, 
but  sat  under  the  great  archway  and  took  notes  in 
colour  of  the  shining  road,  bright  drenched  fields, 
and  dripping  sky.  My  back  was  toward  the  court- 
yard, that  is,  "three-quarters"  to  it,  and  about 
noon  I  became  distracted  from  my  work  by  a  strong 
self -consciousness  which  came  upon  me  without  any 
visible  or  audible  cause.  Obeying  an  impulse,  I 
swung  round  on  my  camp-stool  and  looked  up 
directly  at  the  gallery  window  of  the  salon  of  the 
"Grande  Suite." 


58  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

A  man  with  a  great  white  beard  was  standing  at 
the  window,  half  hidden  by  the  curtain,  watching 
me  intently. 

He  perceived  that  I  saw  him  and  dropped  the  cur- 
tain immediately,  a  speck  of  colour  in  his  buttonhole 
catching  my  eye  as  it  fell. 

The  spy  was  Professor  Keredec. 

But  why  should  he  study  me  so  slyly  and  yet  so 
obviously?  I  had  no  intention  of  intruding  upon  him. 
Nor  was  I  a  psychological  "specimen,"  though  I 
began  to  suspect  that  "that  other  monsieur"  was. 


CHAPTER  V 

1HAD  been  painting  in  various  parts  of  the  forest, 
studying  the  early  morning  along  the  eastern 
fringe  and  moving  deeper  in  as  the  day  advanced. 
For  the  stillness  and  warmth  of  noon  I  went  to  the 
very  woodland  heart,  and  in  the  late  afternoon  moved 
westward  to  a  glade — a  chance  arena  open  to  the  sky, 
the  scene  of  my  most  audacious  endeavours,  for  here 
I  was  trying  to  paint  foliage  luminous  under  those 
long  shafts  of  sunshine  which  grow  thinner  but  rud- 
dier toward  sunset.  A  path  closely  bordered  by 
underbrush  wound  its  way  to  the  glade,  crossed  it, 
then  wandered  away  into  shady  dingles  again;  and 
with  my  easel  pitched  in  the  mouth  of  this  path,  I  sat 
at  work,  one  late  afternoon,  wonderful  for  its  still 
loveliness. 

The  path  debouched  abruptly  on  the  glade  and  was 
so  narrow  that  when  I  leaned  back  my  elbows  were 
in  the  bushes,  and  it  needed  care  to  keep  my  palette 
from  being  smirched  by  the  leaves;  though  there  was 
more  room  for  my  canvas  and  easel,  as  I  had  placed 
them  at  arm's  length  before  me,  fairly  in  the  open. 

59 


60  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

I  had  the  ambition  to  paint  a  picture  here — to  do  the 
whole  thing  in  the  woods  from  day  to  day,  instead  of 
taking  notes  for  the  studio — and  was  at  work  upon 
a  very  foolish  experiment:  I  had  thought  to  render 
the  light — broken  by  the  branches  and  foliage — with 
broken  brush-work,  a  short  stroke  of  the  kind  that 
stung  an  elder  painter  to  swear  that  its  practitioners 
painted  in  shaking  fear  of  the  concierge  appearing 
for  the  studio  rent.  The  attempt  was  alluring,  but 
when  I  rose  from  my  camp-stool  and  stepped  back 
into  the  path  to  get  more  distance  for  my  canvas,  I 
saw  what  a  mess  I  was  making  of  it.  At  the  same 
time,  my  hand,  falling  into  the  capacious  pocket  of 
my  jacket,  encountered  a  package,  my  lunch,  which 
I  had  forgotten  to  eat,  whereupon,  becoming  suddenly 
aware  that  I  was  very  hungry,  I  began  to  eat  Ame- 
deVs  good  sandwiches  without  moving  from  where 
I  stood. 

Absorbed,  gazing  with  abysmal  disgust  at  my  can- 
vas, I  was  eating  absent-mindedly — and  with  all  the 
restraint  and  dignity  of  a  Georgia  darky  attacking 
a  watermelon — when  a  pleasant  voice  spoke  from  just 
behind  me. 

"Pardon,  monsieur;  permit  me  to  pass,  if  you 
please." 


CHAPTER  FIVE  61 

That  was  all  it  said,  very  quietly  and  in  French, 
but  a  gunshot  might  have  startled  me  less. 

I  turned  in  confusion  to  behold  a  dark-eyed  lady, 
charmingly  dressed  in  lilac  and  white,  waiting  for  me 
to  make  way  so  that  she  could  pass. 

Nay,  let  me  leave  no  detail  of  my  mortification 
unrecorded:  I  have  just  said  that  I  "turned  in  con- 
fusion"; the  truth  is  that  I  jumped  like  a  kangaroo, 
but  with  infinitely  less  grace.  And  in  my  nervous 
haste  to  clear  her  way,  meaning  only  to  push  the 
camp-stool  out  of  the  path  with  my  foot,  I  put  too 
much  valour  into  the  push,  and  with  horror  saw  the 
camp-stool  rise  in  the  air  and  drop  to  the  ground 
again  nearly  a  third  of  the  distance  across  the  glade. 

Upon  that  I  squeezed  myself  back  into  the  bushes, 
my  ears  singing  and  my  cheeks  burning. 

There  are  women  who  will  meet  or  pass  a  strange 
man  in  the  woods  or  fields  with  as  finished  an  air  of 
being  unaware  of  him  (particularly  if  he  be  a  rather 
shabby  painter  no  longer  young)  as  if  the  encounter 
took  place  on  a  city  sidewalk;  but  this  woman  was 
not  of  that  priggish  kind.  Her  straightforward 
glance  recognised  my  existence  as  a  fellow-being;  and 
she  further  acknowledged  it  by  a  faint  smile,  which 
was  of  courtesy  only,  however,  and  admitted  no  ref- 


62  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

erence  to  the  fact  that  at  the  first  sound  of  her  voice 
I  had  leaped  into  the  air,  kicked  a  camp-stool  twenty 
feet,  and  now  stood  blushing,  so  shamefully  stuffed 
with  sandwich  that  I  dared  not  speak. 
d  "Thank  you,"  she  said  as  she  went  by;  and  made 
me  a  little  bow  so  graceful  that  it  almost  consoled 
me  for  my  caperings. 

I  stood  looking  after  her  as  she  crossed  the  clear- 
ing and  entered  the  cool  winding  of  the  path  on  the 
other  side. 

I  stared  and  wished — wished  that  I  could  have 
painted  her  into  my  picture,  with  the  thin,  ruddy 
sunshine  flecking  her  dress;  wished  that  I  had  not 
cut  such  an  idiotic  figure.  I  stared  until  her  filmy 
summer  hat,  which  was  the  last  bit  of  her  to  disap- 
pear, had  vanished.  Then,  discovering  that  I  still 
held  the  horrid  remains  of  a  sausage-sandwich  in  my 
hand,  I  threw  it  into  the  underbrush  with  unnecessary 
force,  and,  recovering  my  camp-stool,  sat  down  to 
work  again. 

I  did  not  immediately  begin. 

The  passing  of  a  pretty  woman  anywhere  never 
comes  to  be  quite  of  no  moment  to  a  man,  and  the 
passing  of  a  pretty  woman  in  the  greenwood  is  an 
episode — even  to  a  middle-aged  landscape  painter. 


CHAPTER  FIVE  63 

"An  episode?"  quoth  I.  I  should  be  ashamed  to  with- 
hold the  truth  out  of  my  fear  to  be  taken  for  a  senti- 
mentalist: this  woman  who  had  passed  was  of  great 
and  instant  charm;  it  was  as  if  I  had  heard  a  serenade 
there  in  the  woods — and  at  thought  of  the  jig  I  had 
danced  to  it  my  face  burned  again. 

With  a  sigh  of  no  meaning,  I  got  my  eyes  down  to 
my  canvas  and  began  to  peck  at  it  perfunctorily, 
when  a  snapping  of  twigs  underfoot  and  a  swishing 
of  branches  in  the  thicket  warned  me  of  a  second 
intruder,  not  approaching  by  the  path,  but  forcing 
a  way  toward  it  through  the  underbrush,  and  very 
briskly  too,  judging  by  the  sounds. 

He  burst  out  into  the  glade  a  few  paces  from  me, 
a  tall  man  in  white  flannels,  liberally  decorated  with 
brambles  and  clinging  shreds  of  underbrush.  A 
streamer  of  vine  had  caught  about  his  shoulders; 
there  were  leaves  on  his  bare  head,  and  this,  together 
with  the  youthful  sprightliness  of  his  light  figure 
and  the  naive  activity  of  his  approach,  gave  me  a 
very  faunlike  first  impression  of  him. 

At  sight  of  me  he  stopped  short. 

"Have  you  seen  a  lady  in  a  white  and  lilac  dress 
and  with  roses  in  her  hat?"  he  demanded,  omitting 
all  preface  and  speaking  with  a  quick  eagerness 


64  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

which  caused  me  no  wonder — for  I  had  seen  the 
lady. 

What  did  surprise  me,  however,  was  the  instan- 
taneous certainty  with  which  I  recognised  the  speaker 
from  Amedee's  description;  certainty  founded  on  the 
very  item  which  had  so  dangerously  strained  the 
old  fellow's  powers. 

My  sudden  gentleman  was  strikingly  good-looking, 
his  complexion  so  clear  and  boyishly  healthy,  that, 
except  for  his  gray  hair,  he  might  have  passed  for 
twenty-two  or  twenty-three,  and  even  as  it  was  I 
guessed  his  years  short  of  thirty;  but  there  are  plenty 
of  handsome  young  fellows  with  prematurely  gray 
hair,  and,  as  Amedee  said,  though  out  of  the  world 
we  were  near  it.  It  was  the  new-comer's  "singular 
air"  which  established  his  identity.  Amedee's  vague- 
ness had  irked  me,  but  the  thing  itself — the  "singular 
air" — was  not  at  all  vague.  Instantly  perceptible, 
it  was  an  investiture;  marked,  definite — and  intan- 
gible. My  interrogator  was  "that  other  monsieur." 

In  response  to  his  question  I  asked  him  another: 

"Were  the  roses  real  or  artificial?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered,  with  what  I  took 
to  be  a  whimsical  assumption  of  gravity.  "It 
wouldn't  matter,  would  it?  Have  you  seen  her?" 


CHAPTER  FIVE  65 

He  stooped  to  brush  the  brambles  from  his  trou- 
sers, sending  me  a  sidelong  glance  from  his  blue  eyes, 
which  were  brightly  confident  and  inquiring,  like  a 
boy's.  At  the  same  time  it  struck  me  that  whatever 
the  nature  of  the  singularity  investing  him  it  par- 
took of  nothing  repellent,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
measurably  enhanced  his  attractiveness ;  making  him 
"different"  and  lending  him  a  distinction  which, 
without  it,  he  might  have  lacked.  And  yet,  patent 
as  this  singularity  must  have  been  to  the  dullest, 
it  was  something  quite  apart  from  any  eccentricity 
of  manner,  though,  heaven  knows,  I  was  soon  to 
think  him  odd  enough. 

"Isn't  your  description,"  I  said  gravely,  thinking 
to  suit  my  humour  to  his  own,  "somewhat  too 
general?  Over  yonder  a  few  miles  lies  Houlgate. 
Trouville  itself  is  not  so  far,  and  this  is  the  season. 
A  great  many  white  hats  trimmed  with  roses  might 
come  for  a  stroll  in  these  woods.  If  you  would  com- 
plete the  items — "  and  I  waved  my  hand  as  if  invit- 
ing him  to  continue. 

"I  have  seen  her  only  once  before,"  he  responded 
promptly,  with  a  seriousness  apparently  quite  genu- 
ine. "That  was  from  my  window  at  an  inn,  three 
days  ago.  She  drove  by  in  an  open  carriage  without 


66  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

looking  up,  but  I  could  see  that  she  was  very  hand- 
some. No—  "  he  broke  off  abruptly,  but  as  quickly 
resumed — "handsome  isn't  just  what  I  mean.  Lovely, 
I  should  say.  That  is  more  like  her  and  a  better 
thing  to  be,  shouldn't  you  think  so?" 

"Probably — yes — I  think  so,"  I  stammered,  in 
considerable  amazement. 

"She  went  by  quickly,"  he  said,  as  ft  he  were  talk- 
ing in  the  most  natural  and  ordinary  way  in  the 
world,  "but  I  noticed  that  while  she  was  in  the 
shade  of  the  inn  her  hair  appeared  to  be  dark,  though 
when  the  carriage  got  into  the  sunlight  again  it 
looked  fair." 

I  had  noticed  the  same  thing  when  the  lady  who 
had  passed  emerged  from  the  shadows  of  the  path 
into  the  sunshine  of  the  glade,  but  I  did  not  speak 
of  it  now;  partly  because  he  gave  me  no  opportu- 
nity, partly  because  I  was  almost  too  astonished  to 
speak  at  all,  for  I  was  no  longer  under  the  delusion 
that  he  had  any  humourous  or  whimsical  intention. 

"A  little  while  ago,"  he  went  on,  "I  was  up  in 
the  branches  of  a  tree  over  yonder,  and  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  lady  in  a  light  dress  and  a  white  hat 
and  I  thought  it  might  be  the  same.  She  wore  a 
dress  like  that  and  a  white  hat  with  roses  when  she 


CHAPTER  FIVE  67 

drove  by  the  inn.     I  am  very  anxious  to  see  her 


again. 

"You  seem  to  be!" 


"And  haven't  you  seen  her?  Hasn't  she  passed 
this  way?" 

He  urged  the  question  with  the  same  strange 
eagerness  which  had  marked  his  manner  from  the 
first,  a  manner  which  confounded  me  by  its  absurd 
resemblance  to  that  of  a  boy  who  had  not  mixed 
with  other  boys  and  had  never  been  teased.  And 
yet  his  expression  was  intelligent  and  alert;  nor  was 
there  anything  abnormal  or  "queer"  in  his  good- 
humoured  gaze. 

"I  think  that  I  may  have  seen  her,"  I  began 
slowly;  "but  if  you  do  not  know  her  I  should  not 
advise- 

I  was  interrupted  by  a  shout  and  the  sound  of  a 
large  body  plunging  in  the  thicket.  At  this  the  face 
of  "that  other  monsieur"  flushed  slightly;  he  smiled, 
but  seemed  troubled. 

"That  is  a  friend  of  mine,"  he  said.  "I  am  afraid 
he  will  want  me  to  go  back  with  him."  And  he  raised 
an  answering  shout. 

Professor  Keredec  floundered  out  through  the  last 
row  of  saplings  and  bushes,  his  beard  embellished 


68  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

with  a  broken  twig,  his  big  face  red  and  perspiring. 
He  was  a  fine,  a  mighty  man,  ponderous  of  shoulder, 
monumental  of  height,  stupendous  of  girth;  there 
was  cloth  enough  in  the  hot-looking  black  frock- 
coat  he  wore  for  the  canopy  of  a  small  pavilion. 
Half  a  dozen  books  were  under  his  arm,  and  in  his 
hand  he  carried  a  hat  which  evidently  belonged  to 
"that  other  monsieur,"  for  his  own  was  on  his  head. 

One  glance  of  scrutiny  and  recognition  he  shot  at 
me  from  his  silver-rimmed  spectacles;  and  seized  the 
young  man  by  the  arm. 

"Ha,  my  friend!"  he  exclaimed  in  a  bass  voice  of 
astounding  power  and  depth,  "that  is  one  way  to 
study  botany:  to  jump  out  of  the  middle  of  a  high 
tree  and  to  run  like  a  crazy  man!"  He  spoke  with 
a  strong  accent  and  a  thunderous  rolling  of  the  "r." 
"What  was  I  to  think?"  he  demanded.  "What  has 
arrived  to  you?" 

"I  saw  a  lady  I  wished  to  follow,"  the  other 
answered  promptly. 

"A  lady!    What  lady?" 

"The  lady  who  passed  the  inn  three  days  ago. 
I  spoke  of  her  then,  you  remember." 

"Tonnerre  de  Dieu!"  Keredec  slapped  his  thigh 
with  the  sudden  violence  of  a  man  who  remembers 


CHAPTER  FIVE  69 

that  he  has  forgotten  something,  and  as  a  final  addi- 
tion to  my  amazement,  his  voice  rang  more  of 
remorse  than  of  reproach.  "Have  I  never  told  you 
that  to  follow  strange  ladies  is  one  of  the  things 
you  cannot  do?" 

"That  other  monsieur"  shook  his  head.  "No,  you 
have  never  told  me  that.  I  do  not  understand  it," 
he  said,  adding  irrelevantly,  "I  believe  this  gentle- 
man knows  her.  He  says  he  thinks  he  has  seen 
her." 

"If  you  please,  we  must  not  trouble  this  gentleman 
about  it,"  said  the  professor  hastily.  "Put  on  your 
hat,  in  the  name  of  a  thousand  saints,  and  let  us  go !" 

"But  I  wish  to  ask  him  her  name,"  urged  the  other, 
with  something  curiously  like  the  obstinacy  of  a  child. 
"I  wish " 

"No,  no!"  Keredec  took  him  by  the  arm.  "We 
must  go.  We  shall  be  late  for  our  dinner." 

"But  why?"  persisted  the  young  man. 

"Not  now!"  The  professor  removed  his  broad  felt 
hat  and  hurriedly  wiped  his  vast  and  steaming  brow 
—a  magnificent  structure,  corniced,  at  this  moment, 
with  anxiety.  "It  is  better  if  we  do  not  discuss  it 
now." 

"But  I  might  not  meet  him  again." 


70  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

Professor  Keredec  turned  toward  me  with  a  half- 
desperate,  half-apologetic  laugh  which  was  like  the 
rumbling  of  heavy  wagons  over  a  block  pavement; 
and  in  his  flustered  face  I  thought  I  read  a  signal 
of  genuine  distress. 

"I  do. not  know  the  lady,"  I  said  with  some  sharp- 
ness. "I  have  never  seen  her  until  this  afternoon." 

Upon  this  "that  other  monsieur"  astonished  me  in 
good  earnest.  Searching  my  eyes  eagerly  with  his 
clear,  inquisitive  gaze,  he  took  a  step  toward  me  and 
said: 

"You  are  sure  you  are  telling  the  truth?" 

The  professor  uttered  an  exclamation  of  horror, 
sprang  forward,  and  clutched  his  friend's  arm  again. 
"Malheureiix!"  he  cried,  and  then  to  me:  "Sir,  you 
will  give  him  pardon  if  you  can?  He  has  no  mean- 
ing to  be  rude." 

"Rude?"  The  young  man's  voice  showed  both 
astonishment  and  pain.  "Was  that  rude?  I  didn't 
know.  I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude,  God  knows !  Ah," 
he  said  sadly,  "I  do  nothing  but  make  mistakes. 
I  hope  you  will  forgive  me." 

He  lifted  his  hand  as  if  in  appeal,  and  let  it  drop 
to  his  side;  and  in  the  action,  as  well  as  in  the  tone 
of  his  voice  and  his  attitude  of  contrition,  there  was 


CHAPTER  FIVE  71 

something  that  reached  me  suddenly,  with  the  touch 
of  pathos. 

"Never  mind,"  I  said.  "I  am  only  sorry  that  it 
was  the  truth." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  and  turned  humbly  to 
Keredec. 

"Ha,  that  is  better!"  shouted  the  great  man, 
apparently  relieved  of  a  vast  weight.  "We  shall  ge 
home  now  and  eat  a  good  dinner.  But  first — "  his 
silver-rimmed  spectacles  twinkled  upon  me,  and  he 
bent  his  Brobdingnagian  back  in  a  bow  which  against 
my  will  reminded  me  of  the  curtseys  performed  by 
Orloff's  dancing  bears — "first  let  me  speak  some 
words  for  myself.  My  dear  sir" — he  addressed  him- 
self to  me  with  grave  formality — "do  not  suppose  I 
have  no  realization  that  other  excuses  should  be 
made  to  you.  Believe  me,  they  shall  be.  It  is  now 
that  I  see  it  is  fortunate  for  us  that  you  are  our 
fellow-innsman  at  Les  Trois  Pigeons." 

I  was  unable  to  resist  the  opportunity,  and,  affect- 
ing considerable  surprise,  interrupted  him  with  the 
apparently  guileless  query: 

"Why,  how  did  you  know  that?" 

Professor  Keredec's  laughter  rumbled  again,  grow- 
ing deeper  and  louder  till  it  reverberated  in  the  woods 


72  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

and  a  hundred  hale  old  trees  laughed  back  at 
him. 

<4Ho,  ho,  ho!"  he  shouted.  "But  you  shall  not 
take  me  for  a  window-curtain  spy!  That  is  a  fine 
reputation  I  give  myself  with  you!  Ho,  ho!" 

Then,  followed  submissively  by  "that  other  mon- 
sieur," he  strode  into  the  path  and  went  thundering 
forth  through  the  forest. 


CHAPTER  VI 

NO  doubt  the  most  absurd  thing  I  could  have 
done  after  the  departure  of  Professor  Ke- 
redec  and  his  singular  friend  would  have 
been  to  settle  myself  before  my  canvas  again  with 
the  intention  of  painting — and  that  is  what  I  did. 
At  least,  I  resumed  my  camp-stool  and  went  through 
some  of  the  motions  habitually  connected  with  the 
act  of  painting. 

I  remember  that  the  first  time  in  my  juvenile 
reading  I  came  upon  the  phrase,  "seated  in  a  brown 
study,"  I  pictured  my  hero  in  a  brown  chair,  beside 
a  brown  table,  in  a  room  hung  with  brown  paper. 
Later,  being  enlightened,  I  was  ambitious  to  display 
the  figure  myself,  but  the  uses  of  ordinary  corre- 
spondence allowed  the  occasion  for  it  to  remain 
unoffered.  Let  me  not  only  seize  upon  the  present 
opportunity  but  gild  it,  for  the  adventure  of  the 
afternoon  left  me  in  a  study  which  was,  at  its 
mildest,  a  profound  purple. 

The  confession  has  been  made  of  my  curiosity  con- 
cerning my  fellow-lodgers  at  Les  Trois  Pigeons; 

73 


74  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

however,  it  had  been  comparatively  a  torpid  growth; 
my  meeting  with  them  served  to  enlarge  it  so  sud- 
denly and  to  such  proportions  that  I  wonder  it  did 
not  strangle  me.  In  fine,  I  sat  there  brush-paddling 
my  failure  like  an  automaton,  and  saying  over  and 
over  aloud,  "What  is  wrong  with  him?  What  is 
wrong  with  him?" 

This  was  the  sillier  inasmuch  as  the  word  "wrong" 
(bearing  any  significance  of  a  darkened  mind)  had 
not  the  slightest  application  to  "that  other  mon- 
sieur." There  had  been  neither  darkness  nor  dullness; 
his  eyes,  his  expression,  his  manner,  betrayed  no 
hint  of  wildness;  rather  they  bespoke  a  quick  and 
amiable  intelligence — the  more  amazing  that  he  had 
shown  himself  ignorant  of  things  a  child  of  ten  would 
know.  Amedee  and  his  fellows  of  Les  Trois  Pigeons 
had  judged  wrongly  of  his  nationality;  his  face  was 
of  the  lean,  right,  American  structure;  but  they  had 
hit  the  relation  between  the  two  men:  Keredec  was 
the  master  and  "that  other  monsieur"  the  scholar — 
a  pupil  studying  boys'  textbooks  and  receiving 
instruction  in  matters  and  manners  that  children  are 
taught.  And  yet  I  could  not  believe  him  to  be  a 
simple  case  of  arrested  development.  For  the  matter 
of  that,  I  did  not  like  to  think  of  him  as  a  "case" 


CHAPTER  SIX  75 

at  all.  There  had  been  something  about  his  bright 
youthf ulness — perhaps  it  was  his  quick  contrition  for 
his  rudeness,  perhaps  it  was  a  certain  wistful  quality 
he  had,  perhaps  it  was  his  very  *  'singularity  "- 
which  appealed  as  directly  to  my  liking  as  it  did 
urgently  to  my  sympathy. 

I  came  out  of  my  vari-coloured  study  with  a  start, 
caused  by  the  discovery  that  I  had  absent-mindedly 
squeezed  upon  my  palette  the  entire  contents  of  an 
expensive  tube  of  cobalt  violet,  for  which  I  had  no 
present  use;  and  sighing  (for,  of  necessity,  I  am  an 
economical  man),  I  postponed  both  of  my  problems 
till  another  day,  determined  to  efface  the  one  with 
a  palette  knife  and  a  rag  soaked  in  turpentine,  and 
to  defer  the  other  until  I  should  know  more  of  my 
fellow-lodgers  at  Madame  Brossard's. 

The  turpentine  rag  at  least  proved  effective;  I 
scoured  away  the  last  tokens  of  my  failure  with  it, 
wishing  that  life  were  like  the  canvas  and  that  men 
had  knowledge  of  the  right  celestial  turpentine. 
After  that  I  cleaned  my  brushes,  packed  and  shoul- 
dered my  kit,  and,  with  a  final  imprecation  upon  all 
sausage-sandwiches,  took  up  my  way  once  more  to 
Les  Trois  Pigeons. 

Presently  I  came  upon  an  intersecting  path  where, 


76  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

on  my  previous  excursions,  I  had  always  borne  to  the 
right;  but  this  evening,  thinking  to  discover  a  shorter 
cut,  I  went  straight  ahead.  Striding  along  at  a  good 
gait  and  chanting  sonorously,  "On  Linden  when  the 
sun  was  low,"  I  left  the  rougher  boscages  of  the 
forest  behind  me  and  emerged,  just  at  sunset,  upon 
an  orderly  fringe  of  woodland  where  the  ground  was 
neat  and  unencumbered,  and  the  trimmed  trees  stood 
at  polite  distances,  bowing  slightly  to  one  another 
with  small,  well-bred  rustlings. 

The  light  was  somewhere  between  gold  and  pink 
when  I  came  into  this  lady's  boudoir  of  a  grove. 
"Isar  flowing  rapidly"  ceased  its  tumult  abruptly, 
and  Linden  saw  no  sterner  sight  that  evening:  my 
voice  and  my  feet  stopped  simultaneously — for  I 
stood  upon  Quesnay  ground. 

Before  me  stretched  a  short  broad  avenue  of  turf, 
leading  to  the  chateau  gates.  These  stood  open,  a 
gravelled  driveway  climbing  thence  by  easy  stages 
between  kempt  shrubberies  to  the  crest  of  the  hill, 
where  the  gray  roof  and  red  chimney-pots  of  the 
chateau  were  glimpsed  among  the  tree-tops.  The 
slope  was  terraced  with  strips  of  flower-gardens  and 
intervals  of  sward;  and  against  the  green  of  a  rising 
lawn  I  marked  the  figure  of  a  woman,  pausing  to 


CHAPTER  SIX  ,  77 

bend  over  some  flowering  bush.  The  figure  was  too 
slender  to  be  mistaken  for  that  of  the  present  chate- 
laine of  Quesnay:  in  Miss  Elizabeth's  regal  ampli- 
tude there  was  never  any  hint  of  fragility.  The  lady 
upon  the  slope,  then,  I  concluded,  must  be  Madame 
d'Armand,  the  inspiration  of  Amedee's  "Monsieur 
has  much  to  live  for!" 

Once  more  this  day  I  indorsed  that  worthy  man's 
opinion,  for,  though  I  was  too  far  distant  to  see 
clearly,  I  knew  that  roses  trimmed  Madame  d'Ar- 
inand's  white  hat,  and  that  she  had  passed  me,  no 
long  time  since,  in  the  forest. 

I  took  off  my  cap. 

"I  have  the  honour  to  salute  you,"  I  said  aloud. 
"I  make  my  apologies  for  misbehaving  with  sand- 
wiches and  camp-stools  in  your  presence,  Madame 
d'Armand." 

Something  in  my  own  pronunciation  of  her  name 
struck  me  as  reminiscent:  save  for  the  prefix,  it  had 
sounded  like  "Harman,"  as  a  Frenchman  might  pro- 
nounce it. 

Foreign  names  involve  the  French  in  terrible  diffi- 
culties. Hughes,  an  English  friend  of  mine,  has  lived 
in  France  some  five-and-thirty  years  without  recon- 
ciling himself  to  being  known  as  "Monsieur  Ig." 


78  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

"Armand'*  might  easily  be  Jean  Ferret's  translation 
of  "Harman."  Had  he  and  Amedee  in  their  admira- 
tion conferred  the  prefix  because  they  considered  it 
a  plausible  accompaniment  to  the  lady's  gentle  bear- 
ing? It  was  not  impossible;  it  was,  I  concluded,  very 
probable. 

I  had  come  far  out  of  my  way,  so  I  retraced  my 
steps  to  the  intersection  of  the  paths,  and  thence 
made  for  the  inn  by  my  accustomed  route.  The 
light  failed  under  the  roofing  of  foliage  long  before  I 
was  free  of  the  woods,  and  I  emerged  upon  the  road 
to  Les  Trois  Pigeons  when  twilight  had  turned  to 
dusk. 

Not  far  along  the  road  from  where  I  came  into 
it,  stood  an  old,  brown,  deep-thatched  cottage — a 
branch  of  brushwood  over  the  door  prettily  beckon- 
ing travellers  to  the  knowledge  that  cider  was  here 
for  the  thirsty;  and  as  I  drew  near  I  perceived  that 
one  availed  himself  of  the  invitation.  A  group  stood 
about  the  open  door,  the  lamp-light  from  within 
disclosing  the  head  of  the  house  filling  a  cup  for  the 
wayfarer;  while  honest  Mere  Baudry  and  two  gene- 
rations of  younger  Baudrys  clustered  to  miss  no  word 
of  the  interchange  of  courtesies  between  Pere  Baudry 
and  his  chance  patron. 


CHAPTER  SIX  79 

It  afforded  me  some  surprise  to  observe  that  the 
latter  was  a  most  mundane  and  elaborate  wayfarer, 
indeed;  a  small  young  man  very  lightly  made,  like  a 
jockey,  and  point-device  in  khaki,  puttees,  pongee 
cap,  white-and-green  stock,  a  knapsack  on  his  back, 
and  a  bamboo  stick  under  his  arm;  altogether  equip- 
ped to  such  a  high  point  of  pedestrianism  that  a 
cynical  person  might  have  been  reminded  of  loud 
calls  for  wine  at  some  hostelry  in  the  land  of  opera 
bouffe.  He  was  speaking  fluently,  though  with  a 
detestable  accent,  in  a  rough-and-ready,  pick-up 
dialect  of  Parisian  slang,  evidently  under  the  pleas-* 
ant  delusion  that  he  employed  the  French  language, 
while  Pere  Baudry  contributed  his  share  of  the  con- 
versation in  a  slow  patois.  As  both  men  spoke  at  the 
same  time  and  neither  understood  two  consecutive 
words  the  other  said,  it  struck  me  that  the  dialogue 
might  prove  unproductive  of  any  highly  important 
results  this  side  of  Michaelmas;  therefore,  discover- 
ing that  the  very  pedestrian  gentleman  was  making 
some  sort  of  inquiry  concerning  Les  Trois  Pigeons,, 
I  came  to  a  halt  and  proffered  aid. 

"Are   you   looking   for   Madame   Brossard's?"    I 
asked  in  English. 

The  traveller  uttered  an  exclamation  and  faced 


80  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

about  with  a  jump,  birdlike  for  quickness.  He  did 
not  reply  to  my  question  with'  the  same  promptness; 
however,  his  deliberation  denoted  scrutiny,  not  sloth. 
He  stood  peering  at  me  sharply  until  I  repeated  it. 
Even  then  he  protracted  his  examination  of  me,  a 
favour  I  was  unable  to  return  with  any  interest,  owing 
to  the  circumstance  of  his  back  being  toward  the 
light.  Nevertheless,  I  got  a  clear  enough  impression 
of  his  alert,  well-poised  little  figure,  and  of  a  hatchety 
little  face,  and  a  pair  of  shrewd  little  eyes,  which 
(I  thought)  held  a  fine  little  conceit  of  his  whole  little 
'person.  It  was  a  type  of  fellow-countryman  not 
altogether  unknown  about  certain  "American  Bars" 
of  Paris,  and  usually  connected  (more  or  less  directly) 
with  what  is  known  to  the  people  of  France  as  "le 
Sport." 

"Say,"  he  responded  in  a  voice  of  unpleasant 
nasality,  finally  deciding  upon  speech,  "you're  'Num- 
meric'n,  ain't  you?" 

"Yes,"  I  returned.  "I  thought  I  heard  you 
inquiring  for " 

"Well,  m'  friend,  you  can  sting  me!"  he  inter- 
rupted with  condescending  jocularity.  "My  style 
French  does  f  r  them  camels  up  in  Paris  all  right. 
Me  at  Nice,  Monte  Carlo,  Chantilly — bow  to  the 


CHAPTER  SIX  81 

p'fess'r;  he's  right!  But  down  here  I  don't  seem  to 
be  gud  enough  fr  these  sheep-dogs;  anyway  they 
bark  different.  I'm  lukkin'  fer  a  hotel  called  Les 
Trois  Pigeons" 

"I  am  going  there,"  I  said;  "I  will  show  you  the 
way." 

"Whur  is  't?"  he  asked,  not  moving. 

I  pointed  to  the  lights  of  the  inn,  flickering  across 
the  fields.  "Yonder — beyond  the  second  turn  of  the 
road,"  I  said,  and,  as  he  showed  no  signs  of  accom- 
panying me,  I  added,  "I  am  rather  late." 

"Oh,  I  ain't  goin'  there  t'night.  It's  too  dark  t' 
see  anything  now,"  he  remarked,  to  my  astonish- 
ment. "Dives  and  the  choo-choo  back  t*  little  ole 
Trouville  fr  mine!  I  on'y  wanted  to  take  a  luk  at 
this  pigeon-house  joint." 

"Do  you  mind  my  inquiring,"  I  said,  "what  you 
expected  to  see  at  Les  Trois  Pigeons?" 

"Why!"  he  exclaimed,  as  if  astonished  at  the 
question,  "I'm  a  tourist.  Makin'  a  pedestrun  trip 
t'  all  the  reg'ler  sights."  And,  inspired  to  eloquence, 
he  added,  as  an  afterthought:  "As  it  were." 

"A  tourist?"  I  echoed,  with  perfect  incredulity. 

"That's  whut  I  am,  m'  friend,"  he  returned  firmly. 
"You  don't  have  to  have  a  red  dope-book  in  one 


82  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

hand  and  a  thoid-class  choo-choo  ticket  in  the  other 
to  be  a  tourist,  do  you?" 

"But  if  you  will  pardon  me,"  I  said,  "where  did 
you  get  the  notion  that  Les  Trois  Pigeons  is  one  of 
the  regular  sights?" 

"Ain't  it  in  all  the  books?" 

"I  don't  think  that  it  is  mentioned  in  any  of  the 
guide-books." 

"No!  I  didn't  say  it  was,  m'  friend,"  he  retorted 
with  contemptuous  pity.  "I  mean  them  history- 
books.  It's  in  all  o'  them!" 

"This  is  strange  news,"  said  I.  "I  should  be 
very  much  interested  to  read  them!" 

"Lookahere,"  he  said,  taking  a  step  nearer  me; 
"in  oinest  now,  on  your  woid:  Didn*  more'n  half 
them  Jeanne  d'Arc  tamales  live  at  that  hotel  wunst?" 

"Nobody  of  historical  importance — or  any  other 
kind  of  importance,  so  far  as  I  know — ever  lived 
there,"  I  informed  him.  "The  older  portions  of  the  inn 
once  belonged  to  an  ancient  farm-house,  that  is  all." 

"On  the  level,"  he  demanded,  "didn't  that  William 
the  Conker  nor  none  o'  them  ancient  gilt-edges  live 
there?" 

"No." 

"Stung  again!"     He  broke  into  a  sudden  loud 


CHAPTER  SIX  83 

cackle  of  laughter.  "Why!  the  feller  tole  me  'at 
this  here  Pigeon  place  was  all  three  rings  when  it 
come  t'  history.  Yessir!  Tall,  thin  feller  he  was,  in 
a  three-button  cutaway,  English  make,  and  kind  of 
red-complected,  with  a  sandy  raws-tache,"  pursued 
the  pedestrian,  apparently  fearing  his  narrative 
might  lack  colour.  "I  met  him  right  comin'  out  o' 
the  Casino  at  Trouville,  yes'day  aft 'noon;  c'udn'  a' 
b'en  more'n  four  o'clock — hoi*  on  though,  yes  'twas, 
'twas  nearer  five,  about  twunty  minutes  t'  five,  say 
• — an'  this  feller  tells  me — "  He  cackled  with  laugh- 
ter as  palpably  disingenuous  as  the  corroborative 
details  he  thought  necessary  to  muster;  then  he 
became  serious,  as  if  marvelling  at  his  own  won- 
drous verdancy.  "M'  friend,  that  feller  soitn'y  found 
me  easy.  But  he  can't  say  I  ain't  game;  he  passes 
me  the  limes,  but  I'm  jest  man  enough  to  drink  his 
health  fer  it  in  this  sweet,  sound  ole-fashioned  cider 
'at  ain't  got  a  headache  in  a  barrel  of  it.  He  played 
me  gud,  and  here's  to  him!" 

Despite  the  heartiness  of  the  sentiment,  my  honest 
tourist's  enthusiasm  seemed  largely  histrionic,  and 
his  quaffing  of  the  beaker  too  reminiscent  of  drain- 
the-wine-cup-free  in  the  second  row  of  the  chorus, 
for  he  absently  allowed  it  to  dangle  from  his  hand 


84  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

before  raising  it  to  his  lips.  However,  not  all  of  its 
contents  was  spilled,  and  he  swallowed  a  mouthful 
of  the  sweet,  sound,  old-fashioned  cider — but  by 
mistake,  I  was  led  to  suppose,  from  the  expression  of 
displeasure  which  became  so  deeply  marked  upon 
his  countenance  as  to  be  noticeable,  even  in  the 
feeble  lamplight. 

I  tarried  no  longer,  but  bidding  this  good  youth 
and  the  generations  of  Baudry  good-night,  hastened 
on  to  my  belated  dinner. 

"Amedee,"  I  said,  when  my  cigar  was  lighted  and 
the  usual  hour  of  consultation  had  arrived;  "isn't 
that  old  lock  on  the  chest  where  Madame  Brossard 
keeps  her  silver  getting  rather  rusty?" 

"Monsieur,  we  have  no  thieves  here.  We  are  out 
of  the  world." 

"Yes,  but  Trouville  is  not  so  far  away." 

"Truly." 

"Many  strange  people  go  to  Trouville:  grand- 
dukes,  millionaires,  opera  singers,  princes,  jockeys, 
gamblers 

"Truly,  truly!" 

"And  tourists,"  I  finished. 

"That  is  well  known,"  assented  Amedee,  nodding. 

"It  follows,"  I  continued  with  the  impressiveness 


CHAPTER  SIX  85 

of  all  logicians,  "that  many  strange  people  may  come 
from  Trouville.  In  their  excursions  to  the  surround- 
ing points  of  interest " 

"Eh,  monsieur,  but  that  is  true!"  he  interrupted, 
laying  his  right  forefinger  across  the  bridge  of  his 
nose,  which  was  his  gesture  when  he  remembered  any- 
thing suddenly.  "There  was  a  strange  monsieur 
from  Trouville  here  this  very  day." 

"What  kind  of  person  was  he?" 

"A  foreigner,  but  I  could  not  tell  from  what 
country." 

"What  time  of  day  was  he  here?"  I  asked,  with 
growing  interest. 

"Toward  the  middle  of  the  afternoon.  I  was  alone, 
except  for  Glouglou,  when  he  came.  He  wished  to 
see  the  whole  house  and  I  showed  him  what  I  could, 
except  of  course  monsieur's  pavilion,  and  the  Grande 
Suite.  Monsieur  the  Professor  and  that  other  mon- 
sieur had  gone  to  the  forest,  but  I  did  not  feel  at 
liberty  to  exhibit  their  rooms  without  Madame  Bros- 
sard's  permission,  and  she  was  spending  the  day  at 
Dives.  Besides,"  added  the  good  man,  languidly 
snapping  a  napkin  at  a  moth  near  one  of  the 
candles,  "the  doors  were  locked." 

"This  person  was  a  tourist?"  I  asked,  after  a 


86  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

pause  during  which  Amedee  seemed  peacefully  un- 
aware of  the  rather  concentrated  gaze  I  had  fixed 
upon  him. 

"Of  a  kind.  In  speaking  he  employed  many 
peculiar  expressions,  more  like  a  thief  of  a  Parisian 
cabman  than  of  the  polite  world." 

"The  devil  he  did!"  said  I.  "Did  he  tell  you  why 
he  wished  to  see  the  whole  house?  Did  he  contem- 
plate taking  rooms  here?" 

"No,  monsieur,  it  appears  that  his  interest  was 
historical.  At  first  I  should  not  have  taken  him  for  a 
man  of  learning,  yet  he  gave  me  a  great  piece  of 
information;  a  thing  quite  new  to  me,  though  I  have 
lived  here  so  many  years.  We  are  distinguished  in 
history,  it  seems,  and  at  one  time  both  William  the 
Conqueror  and  that  brave  Jeanne  d'Arc ' 

I  interrupted  sharply,  dropping  my  cigar  and 
leaning  across  the  table: 

"How  was  this  person  dressed?" 

"Monsieur,  he  was  very  much  the  pedestrian." 

And  so,  for  that  evening,  we  had  something  to 
talk  about  besides  "that  other  monsieur";  indeed, 
we  found  our  subject  so  absorbing  that  I  forgot 
to  ask  Amedee  whether  it  was  he  or  Jean  Ferret 
who  had  prefixed  the  "de"  to  "Armand." 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  cat  that  fell  from  the  top  of  the  Wash- 
ington monument,  and  scampered  off  un- 
hurt was  killed  by  a  dog  at  the  next  corner. 
Thus  a  certain  painter-man,  winged  with  canvases 
and  easel,  might  have  been  seen  to  depart  hurriedly 
from  a  poppy-sprinkled  field,  an  infuriated  Norman 
stallion  in  close  attendance,  and  to  fly  safely  over  a 
stone  wall  of  good  height,  only  to  turn  his  ankle 
upon  an  unconsidered  pebble,  some  ten  paces  farther 
on;  the  nose  of  the  stallion  projected  over  the  wall, 
snorting  joy  thereat.  The  ankle  was  one  which  had 
turned  aforetime;  it  was  an  old  weakness:  moreover, 
it  was  mine.  I  was  the  painter-man. 

I  could  count  on  little  less  than  a  week  of  idle- 
ness within  the  confines  of  Les  Trois  Pigeons;  and 
reclining  among  cushions  in  a  wicker  long-chair 
looking  out  from  my  pavilion  upon  the  drowsy 
garden  on  a  hot  noontide,  I  did  not  much  care. 
It  was  cooler  indoors,  comfortable  enough;  the  open 

door    framed    the    courtyard    where    pigeons    were 

87 


88  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

strutting  on  the  gravel  walks  between  flower-beds. 
Beyond,  and  thrown  deeper  into  the  perspective 
by  the  outer  frame  of  the  great  archway,  road  and 
fields  and  forest  fringes  were  revealed,  lying  trem- 
ulously in  the  hot  sunshine.  The  foreground  gained 
a  human  (though  not  lively)  interest  from  the 
ample  figure  of  our  maitre  d'hdtel  reposing  in  a 
rustic  chair  which  had  enjoyed  the  shade  of  an 
arbour  about  an  hour  earlier,  when  first  occupied, 
but  now  stood  in  the  broiling  sun.  At  times  Amedee's 
upper  eyelids  lifted  as  much  as  the  sixteenth  of  an 
inch,  and  he  made  a  hazy  gesture  as  if  to  wave  the 
sun  away,  or,  when  the  table-cloth  upon  his  left 
arm  slid  slowly  earthward,  he  adjusted  it  with  a 
petulant  jerk,  without  material  interruption  to  his 
siesta.  Meanwhile  Glouglou,  rolling  and  smoking 
cigarettes  in  the  shade  of  a  clump  of  lilac,  watched 
with  button  eyes  the  noddings  of  his  superior, 
and,  at  the  cost  of  some  convulsive  writhings, 
constrained  himself  to  silent  laughter. 

A  heavy  step  crunched  the  gravel  and  I  heard 
my  name  pronounced  in  a  deep  inquiring  rumble 
— the  voice  of  Professor  Keredec,  no  less.  Nor 
was  I  greatly  surprised,  since  our  meeting  in  the 
forest  had  led  me  to  expect  some  advances  on  his 


CHAPTER  SEVEN  89 

,>art  toward  friendliness,  or,  at  least,  in  the  direc- 
tion of  a  better  acquaintance.  However,  I  withheld 
my  reply  for  a  moment  to  make  sure  I  had  heard 
aright. 

The  name  was  repeated. 

"Here  I  am,"  I  called,  "in  the  pavilion,  if  you 
wish  to  see  me." 

"Aha!  I  hear  you  become  an  invalid,  my  dear 
sir."  With  that  the  professor's  great  bulk  loomed 
in  the  doorway  against  the  glare  outside.  "I  have 
come  to  condole  with  you,  if  you  allow  it." 

"To  smoke  with  me,  too,  I  hope,"  I  said,  not 
a  little  pleased. 

"That  I  will  do,"  he  returned,  and  came  in  slowly, 
walking  with  perceptible  lameness.  "The  sympathy 
I  offer  is  genuine:  it  is  not  only  from  the  heart,  it 
is  from  the  latissimus  dor  si"  he  continued,  seating 
himself  with  a  cavernous  groan.  "I  am  your  confrere 
in  illness,  my  dear  sir.  I  have  choosed  this  fine 
weather  for  rheumatism  of  the  back." 

"I  hope  it  is  not  painful." 

"Ha,  it  is  so-so,"  he  rumbled,  removing  his  spec- 
tacles and  wiping  his  eyes,  dazzled  by  the  sun. 
"There  is  more  of  me  than  of  most  men — more  to 
suffer.  Nature  was  generous  to  the  little  germs 


90  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

when  she  made  this  big  Keredec;  she  offered  them 
room  for  their  campaigns  of  war." 

"You'll  take  a  cigarette?" 

"I  thank  you;  if  you  do  not  mind,  I  smoke  my 
pipe." 

He  took  from  his  pocket  a  worn  leather  case, 
which  he  opened,  disclosing  a  small,  browned  clay 
bowl  of  the  kind  workmen  use;  and,  fitting  it  with 
a  red  stem,  he  filled  it  with  a  dark  and  sinister 
tobacco  from  a  pouch.  "Always  my  pipe  for  me," 
he  said,  and  applied  a  match,  inhaling  the  smoke 
as  other  men  inhale  the  light  smoke  of  cigarettes. 
"Ha,  it  is  good!  It  is  wicked  for  the  insides,  but 
it  is  good  for  the  soul."  And  clouds  wreathed  his 
great  beard  like  a  storm  on  Mont  Blanc  as  he  con- 
cluded, with  gusto,  "It  is  my  first  pipe  since 
yesterday." 

"That  is  being  a  good  smoker,"  I  ventured  sen- 
ten  tiously;  "to  whet  indulgence  with  abstinence." 

"My  dear  sir,"  he  protested,  "I  am  a  man  with- 
out even  enough  virtue  to  be  an  epicure.  When 
I  am  alone  I  am  a  chimney  with  no  hebdomadary 
repose;  I  smoke  forever.  It  is  on  account  of  my 
young  friend  I  am  temperate  now." 

"He  has  never  smoked,  your  young  friend?"  I 


CHAPTER  SEVEN  91 

asked,  glancing  at  my  visitor  rather  curiously,   I 
fear. 

"Mr.  Saffren  has  no  vices."  Professor  Keredee 
replaced  his  silver-rimmed  spectacles  and  turned 
them  upon  me  with  serene  benevolence.  "He  is 
in  good  condition,  all  pure,  like  little  children — 
and  so  if  I  smoke  near  him  he  chokes  and  has  water 
at  the  eyes,  though  he  does  not  complain.  Just 
now  I  take  a  vacation:  it  is  his  hour  for  study, 
but  I  think  he  looks  more  out  of  the  front  window 
than  at  his  book.  He  looks  very  irach  from  the 
window" — there  was  a  muttering  of  subterranean 
thunder  somewhere,  which  I  was  able  to  locate  in 
the  professor's  torso,  and  took  to  be  his  expression 
of  a  chuckle — "yes»  very  much,  since  the  passing 
of  that  charming  lady  some  days  ago." 

"You  say  your  young  friend's  name  is  Saffren?" 
"Oliver  Saffren."  The  benevolent  gaze  continued 
to  rest  upon  me,  but  a  shadow  like  a  faint  anxiety 
darkened  the  Homeric  brow,  and  an  odd  notion 
entered  my  mind  (without  any  good  reason)  that 
Professor  Keredec  was  wondering  what  I  thought 
of  the  name.  I  uttered  some  commonplace  syllable 
of  no  moment,  and  there  ensued  a  pause  during 
which  the  seeming  shadow  upon  my  visitor's  fore- 


92  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

head  became  a  reality,  deepening  to  a  look  of  per- 
plexity and  trouble.  Finally  he  said  abruptly: 
"It  is  about  him  that  I  have  come  to  talk  to  you." 

"I  shall  be  very  glad,"  I  murmured,  but  he 
brushed  the  callow  formality  aside  with  a  gesture 
of  remonstrance. 

"Ha,  my  dear  sir,"  he  cried;  "but  you  are  a 
man  of  feeling!  We  are  both  old  enough  to  deal 
with  more  than  just  these  little  words  of  the  mouth! 
It  was  the  way  you  have  received  my  poor  young 
gentleman's  excuses  when  he  was  so  rude,  which 
make  me  wish  to  talk  with  you  on  such  a  subject; 
it  is  why  I  would  not  have  you  believe  Mr.  Saffren 
and  me  two  very  suspected  individuals  who  hide 
here  like  two  bad  criminals!" 

"No,  no,"  I  protested  hastily.  "The  name  of 
Professor  Keredec " 

"The  name  of  no  man,"  he  thundered,  interrupt- 
ing, "can  protect  his  reputation  when  he  is  caught 
peeping  from  a  curtain!  Ha,  my  dear  sir!  I  know 
what  you  think.  You  think,  'He  is  a  nice  fine  man, 
that  old  professor,  oh,  very  nice — only  he  hides 
behind  the  curtains  sometimes!  Very  fine  man, 
oh,  yes;  only  he  is  a  spy.'  Eh?  Ha,  ha!  That  is 
what  you  have  been  thinking,  my  dear  sir!" 


CHAPTER  SEVEN  93 

"Not  at  all,"  I  laughed;  "I  thought  you  might 
fear  that  /  was  a  spy." 

"Eh?"  He  became  sharply  serious  upon  the  in- 
stant. "What  made  you  think  that?" 

"I  supposed  you  might  be  conducting  some  experi- 
ments, or  perhaps  writing  a  book  which  you  wished 
to  keep  from  the  public  for  a  time,  and  that  possibly 
you  might  imagine  that  I  was  a  reporter." 

"So!  And  that  is  all,"  he  returned,  with  evident 
relief.  "No,  my  dear  sir,  I  was  the  spy;  it  is  the 
truth;  and  I  was  spying  upon  you.  I  confess  my 
shame.  I  wish  very  much  to  know  what  you 
were  like,  what  kind  of  a  man  you  are.  And  so," 
he  concluded  with  an  opening  of  the  hands,  palms 
upward,  as  if  to  show  that  nothing  remained  for 
concealment,  "and  so  I  have  watched  you." 

"Why?"  I  asked. 

"The  explanation  is  so  simple:  it  was  necessary." 

"Because  of — of  Mr.  Saffren?"  I  said  slowly, 
and  with  some  trepidation. 

"Precisely."  The  professor  exhaled  a  cloud  of 
smoke.  "Because  I  am  sensitive  for  him,  and 
because  in  a  certain  way  I  am — how  should  it  be 
said? — perhaps  it  is  near  the  truth  to  say,  I  am  his 
guardian." 


94  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

"I  see." 

"Forgive  me,"  he  rejoined  quickly,  "but  I  am 
afraid  you  do  not  see.  I  am  not  his  guardian  by 
the  law." 

"I  had  not  supposed  that  you  were,"  I  said. 

"Why  not?" 

"Because,  though  he  puzzled  me  and  I  do  not 
understand  his  case — his  case,  so  to  speak,  I  have 
not  for  a  moment  thought  him  insane." 

"Ha,  my  dear  sir,  you  are  right!"  exclaimed 
Keredec,  beaming  on  me,  much  pleased.  "You  are 
a  thousand  times  right;  he  is  as  sane  as  yourself 
or  myself  or  as  anybody  in  the  whole  wide  world! 
Ha!  he  is  now  much  more  sane,  for  his  mind  is  not 
yet  confused  and  becobwebbed  with  the  useless 
things  you  and  I  put  into  ours.  It  is  open  and 
clear  like  the  little  children's  mind.  And  it  is  a 
good  mind!  It  is  only  a  little  learning,  a  little 
experience,  that  he  lacks.  A  few  months  more — ha, 
at  the  greatest,  a  year  from  now — and  he  will  not 
be  different  any  longer;  he  will  be  like  the  rest 
of  us.  Only" — the  professor  leaned  forward  and 
his  big  fist  came  down  on  the  arm  of  his  chair — 
"he  shall  be  better  than  the  rest  of  us!  But  if 
strange  people  were  to  see  him  now,"  he  continue^ 


CHAPTER  SEVEN  95 

leaning  back  and  dropping  his  voice  to  a  more 
confidential  tone,  "it  would  not  do.  This  poor 
world  is  full  of  fools;  there  are  so  many  who  judge 
quickly.  If  they  should  see  him  now,  they  might 
think  he  is  not  just  right  in  his  brain;  and  then, 
as  it  could  happen  so  easily,  those  same  people 
might  meet  him  again  after  a  while.  'Ha,'  they 
would  say,  'there  was  a  time  when  that  young 
man  was  insane.  I  knew  him!'  And  so  he  might 
go  through  his  life  with  those  clouds  over  him. 
Those  clouds  are  black  clouds,  they  can  make 
more  harm  than  our  old  sins,  and  I  wish  to  save 
my  friend  from  them.  So  I  have  brought  him  here 
to  this  quiet  place  where  nobody  comes,  and  we 
can  keep  from  meeting  any  foolish  people.  But, 
my  dear  sir" — he  leaned  forward  again,  and  spoke 
emphatically — "it  would  be  barbarous  for  men  of 
intelligence  to  live  in  the  same  house  and  go  always 
hiding  from  one  another!  Let  us  dine  together  this 
evening,  if  you  will,  and  not  only  this  evening 'but 
every  evening  you  are  willing  to  share  with  us  and 
do  not  wish  to  be  alone.  It  will  be  good  for  us. 
We  are  three  men  like  hermits,  far  out  of  the  world, 
but — a  thousand  saints! — let  us  be  civilised  to  one 
another!" 


96  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

"With  all  my  heart,"  I  said. 

"Ha!  I  wish  you  to  know  my  young  man," 
Keredec  went  on.  "You  will  like  him — no  man  of 
feeling  could  keep  himself  from  liking  him — and  he 
is  your  fellow-countryman.  I  hope  you  will  be  his 
friend.  He  should  make  friends,  for  he  needs  them." 

"I  think  he  has  a  host  of  them,"  said  I,  "in  Pro- 
fessor Keredec." 

My  visitor  looked  at  me  quizzically  for  a  moment, 
shook  his  head  and  sighed.  "That  is  only  one  small 
man  in  a  big  body,  that  Professor  Keredec.  And 
yet,"  he  went  on  sadly,  "it  is  all  the  friends  that 
poor  boy  has  in  this  world.  You  will  dine  with  us 
to-night?" 

Acquiescing  cheerfully,  I  added:  "You  will  join 
me  at  the  table  on  my  veranda,  won't  you?  I  can 
hobble  that  far  but  not  much  farther." 

Before  answering  he  cast  a  sidelong  glance  at 
the  arrangement  of  things  outside  the  door.  The 
screen  of  honeysuckle  ran  partly  across  the  front  of 
the  little  porch,  about  half  of  which  it  concealed 
from  the  garden  and  consequently  from  the  road 
beyond  the  archway.  I  saw  that  he  took  note  of 
this  before  he  pointed  to  that  corner  of  the  veranda 
most  closely  screened  by  the  vines  and  said: 


CHAPTER  SEVEN  97 

"May  the  table  be  placed  yonder?" 

"Certainly;  I  often  have  it  there,  even  when  I 
am  alone." 

"Ha,  that  is  good,"  he  exclaimed.  "It  is  not 
human  for  a  Frenchman  to  eat  in  the  house  in  good 
weather." 

"It  is  a  pity,"  I  said,  "that  I  should  have  been 
such  a  bugbear." 

This  remark  was  thoroughly  disingenuous,  for, 
although  I  did  not  doubt  that  anything  he  told 
me  was  perfectly  true,  nor  that  he  had  made  as 
complete  a  revelation  as  he  thought  consistent  with 
his  duty  toward  the  young  man  in  his  charge,  I 
did  not  believe  that  his  former  precautions  were 
altogether  due  to  my  presence  at  the  inn. 

And  I  was  certain  that  while  he  might  fear  for 
his  friend  some  chance  repute  of  insanity,  he  had 
greater  terrors  than  that.  As  to  their  nature  I  had 
no  clew;  nor  was  it  my  affair  to  be  guessing;  but 
whatever  they  were,  the  days  of  security  at  Les 
Trois  Pigeons  had  somewhat  eased  Professor  Kere- 
dec's  mind  in  regard  to  them.  At  least,  his  anxiety 
was  sufficiently  assuaged  to  risk  dining  out  of  doors 
with  only  my  screen  of  honeysuckle  between  his 
charge  and  curious  eyes.  So  much  was  evident. 


98  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

"The  reproach  is  deserved,"  he  returned,  after  a 
pause.  "It  is  to  be  wished  that  all  our  bugbears 
might  offer  as  pleasant  a  revelation,  if  we  had  the 
courage,  or  the  slyness" — he  laughed — "to  investi- 
gate them." 

I  made  a  reply  of  similar  gallantry  and  he  got 
to  his  feet,  rubbing  his  back  as  he  rose. 

"Ha,  I  am  old!  old!  Rheumatism  in  warm 
weather:  that  is  ugly.  Now  I  must  go  to  my  boy 
and  see  what  he  can  make  of  his  Gibbon.  The  poor 
fellow!  I  think  he  finds  the  decay  of  Rome  worse 
than  rheumatism  in  summer!" 

He  replaced  his  pipe  in  its  case,  and  promising 
heartily  that  it  should  not  be  the  last  he  would 
smoke  in  my  company  and  domain,  was  making 
slowly  for  the  door  when  he  paused  at  a  sound  from 
the  road. 

We  heard  the  rapid  hoof-beats  of  a  mettled  horse, 
He  crossed  our  vision  and  the  open  archway:  a 
high-stepping  hackney  going  well,  driven  by  a  lady 
in  a  light  trap  which  was  half  full  of  wild  flowers. 
It  was  a  quick  picture,  like  a  flash  of  the  cinemato- 
graph, but  the  pose  of  the  lady  as  a  driver  was 
seen  to  be  of  a  commanding  grace,  and  though  she 
was  not  in  white  but  in  light  blue,  and  her  plain 


CHAPTER  SEVEN  99 

sailor  hat  was  certainly  not  trimmed  with  roses,  I 
had  not  the  least  difficulty  in  recognising  her.  At 
the  same  instant  there  was  a  hurried  clatter  of  foot- 
steps upon  the  stairway  leading  from  the  gallery; 
the  startled  pigeons  fluttered  up  from  the  garden- 
path,  betaking  themselves  to  flight,  and  "that  other 
monsieur"  came  leaping  across  the  courtyard, 
through  the  archway  and  into  the  road. 

"Glouglou!  Look  quickly!"  he  called  loudly,  in 
French,  as  he  came;  "Who  is  that  lady?" 

Glouglou  would  have  replied,  but  the  words  were 
taken  out  of  his  mouth.  Amedee  awoke  with  a 
frantic  start  and  launched  himself  at  the  archway, 
carroming  from  its  nearest  corner  and  hurtling  on- 
ward at  a  speed  which  for  once  did  not  diminish 
in  proportion  to  his  progress. 

"That  lady,  monsieur?"  he  gasped,  checking  him- 
self at  the  young  man's  side  and  gazing  after  the 
trap,  "that  is  Madame  d'Armand." 

"Madame  d'Armand,"  Saffren  repeated  the  name 
slowly.  "Her  name  is  Madame  d'Armand." 

"Yes,  monsieur,"  said  Amedee  complacently;  "it 
is  an  American  lady  who  has  married  a  French 
nobleman." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

LIKE  most  painters,  I  have  supposed  the 
tools  of  my  craft  harder  to  manipulate 
than  those  of  others.  The  use  of  words, 
particularly,  seemed  readier,  handier  for  the  con- 
trivance of  effects  than  pigments.  I  thought  the 
language  of  words  less  elusive  than  that  of  colour, 
leaving  smaller  margin  for  unintended  effects;  and. 
believing  in  complacent  good  faith  that  words  con- 
veyed exact  meanings  exactly,  it  was  my  innocent 
conception  that  almost  anything  might  be  so  de- 
scribed in  words  that  all  who  read  must  inevitably 
perceive  that  thing  precisely.  If  this  were  true, 
there  would  be  little  work  for  the  lawyers,  who 
produce  such  tortured  pages  in  the  struggle  to  be 
definite,  who  swing  riches  from  one  family  to  an- 
other, save  men  from  violent  death  or  send  them 
to  it,  and  earn  fortunes  for  themselves  through 
the  dangerous  inadequacies  of  words.  I  have  learned 
how  great  was  my  mistake,  and  now  I  am  wishing 
I  could  shift  paper  for  canvas,  that  I  might  paint 
the  young  man  who  came  to  interest  me  so  deeply. 

100 


CHAPTER  -EI<J1IT  101 

I  wish  I  might  present  him  here  in  colour  instead 
of  trusting  to  this  unstable  business  of  words, 
so  wily  and  undependable,  with  their  shimmering 
values,  that  you  cannot  turn  your  back  upon  them 
for  two  minutes  but  they  will  be  shouting  a  hun- 
dred things  which  they  were  not  meant  to  tell. 

To  make  the  best  of  necessity:  what  I  have 
written  of  him — my  first  impressions — must  be  taken 
as  the  picture,  although  it  be  but  a  gossamer  sketch 
in  the  air,  instead  of  definite  work  with  well-ground 
pigments  to  show  forth  a  portrait,  to  make  you 
see  flesh  and  blood.  It  must  take  the  place  of  some- 
thing contrived  with  my  own  tools  to  reveal  what 
the  following  days  revealed  him  to  me,  and  what 
it  was  about  him  (evasive  of  description)  which  made 
me  so  soon,  as  Keredec  wished,  his  friend. 

Life  among  our  kin  and  kind  is  made  pleasanter 
by  our  daily  platitudes.  Who  is  more  tedious  than 
the  man  incessantly  struggling  to  avoid  the  banal? 
Nature  rules  that  such  a  one  will  produce  nothing 
better  than  epigram  and  paradox,  saying  old,  old 
things  in  a  new  way,  or  merely  shifting  object  for 
subject — and  his  wife's  face,  when  he  shines  for  a 
circle,  is  worth  a  glance.  With  no  further  apology, 
I  declare  that  I  am  a  person  who  has  felt  few  posi- 


102  THE  GUftST  OF  QUESNAY 

live  likes  or  dislikes  for  people  in  this  life,  and  I 
did  deeply  like  my  fellow-lodgers  at  Les  Trois 
Pigeons.  Liking  for  both  men  increased  with  ac- 
quaintance, and  for  the  younger  I  came  to  feel, 
in  addition,  a  kind  of  championship,  doubtless  in 
some  measure  due  to  what  Keredec  had  told  me 
of  him,  but  more  to  that  half -humourous  sense  of 
protectiveness  that  we  always  have  for  those  young 
people  whose  untempered  and  innocent  outlook 
makes  us  feel,  as  we  say,  "a  thousand  years  old." 

The  afternoon  following  our  first  dinner  together, 
the  two,  in  returning  from  their  walk,  came  into 
the  pavilion  with  cheerful  greetings,  instead  of 
going  to  their  rooms  as  usual,  and  Keredec,  de- 
claring that  the  open  air  had  "dispersed"  his  rheu- 
matism, asked  if  he  might  overhaul  some  of  my 
little  canvases  and  boards.  I  explained  that  they 
consisted  mainly  of  "notes"  for  future  use,  but  con- 
sented willingly;  whereupon  he  arranged  a  number 
of  them  as  for  exhibition  and  delivered  himself 
impromptu  of  the  most  vehemently  instructive  lec- 
ture on  art  I  had  ever  heard.  Beginning  with  the 
family,  the  tribe,  and  the  totem-pole,  he  was  able 
to  demonstrate  a  theory  that  art  was  not  only 
useful  to  society  but  its  primary  necessity;  a  curious 


CHAPTER  EIGHT  103 

thought,  probably  more  attributable  to  the  fact  that 
he  was  a  Frenchman  than  to  that  of  his  being  a 
scientist. 

"And  here,"  he  said  in  the  course  of  his  demon- 
stration, pointing  to  a  sketch  which  I  had  made 
one  morning  just  after  sunrise — "here  you  can  see 
real  sunshine.  One  certain  day  there  came  those 
few  certain  moment'  at  the  sunrise  when  the  light 
was  like  this.  Those  few  moment',  where  are  they? 
They  have  disappeared,  gone  for  eternally.  They 
went" — he  snapped  his  fingers — "like  that.  Yet  here 
they  are — ha! — forever!" 

'"But  it  doesn't  look  like  sunshine,"  said  Oliver 
Saffren  hesitatingly,  stating  i  disconcerting  but  in- 
controvertible truth;  "it  only  seems  to  look  like 
it  because — isn't  it  because  it's  so  much  brighter 
than  the  rest  of  the  picture?  I  doubt  if  paint  can 
look  like  sunshine."  He  turned  from  the  sketch, 
caught  Keredec's  gathering  frown,  and  his  face 
flushed  painf ully.  "Ah !"  he  cried,  "I  shouldn't  have 
said  it?" 

I  interposed  to  reassure  him,  exclaiming  that  it 
were  a  godsend  indeed,  did  all  our  critics  merely 
speak  the  plain  truth  as  they  see  it  for  themselves. 
The  professor  would  not  have  it  so,  and  cut  me  off. 


104  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

"No,  no,  no,  my  dear  sir!"  he  shouted.  "You 
speak  with  kindness,  but  you  put  some  wrong  ideas 
in  his  head!" 

Saffren's  look  of  trouble  deepened.  "I  don't  under- 
stand," he  murmured.  "  I  thought  you  said  always 
to  speak  the  truth  just  as  I  see  it." 

"I  have  telled  you,"  Keredec  declared  vehemently, 
"nothing  of  the  kind!" 

"But  only  yesterday " 

"Never!" 

"I  understood " 

"Then  you  understood  only  one-half!  I  say, 
"Speak  the  truth  as  you  see  it,  when  you  speak.' 
I  did  not  tell  you  to  speak!  How  much  time  have 
you  give'  to  study  sunshine  and  paint?  What  do 
you  know  about  them?" 

"Nothing,"  answered  the  other  humbly. 

A  profound  rumbling  was  heard,  and  the  frown 
disappeared  from  Professor  Keredec's  brow  like  the 
vanishing  of  the  shadow  of  a  little  cloud  from  the 
dome  of  some  great  benevolent  and  scientific  insti' 
tute.  He  dropped  a  weighty  hand  on  his  young 
friend's  shoulder,  and,  in  high  good-humour,  thun- 
dered: 

"Then  you  are  a  critic!    Knowing  nothing  of  sun- 


CHAPTER  EIGHT  105 

shine  except  that  it  warms  you,  and  never  having 
touched  paint,  you  are  going  to  tell  about  them  to 
a  man  who  spends  his  life  studying  them!  You  look 
up  in  the  night  and  the  truth  you  see  is  that  the 
moon  and  stars  are  crossing  the  ocean.  You  will  tell 
that  to  the  astronomer?  Ha!  The  truth  is  what  the 
masters  see.  When  you  know  what  they  see,  you 
may  speak." 

At  dinner  the  night  before,  it  had  struck  me  that 
Saffren  was  a  rather  silent  young  man  by  habit,  and 
now  I  thought  I  began  to  understand  the  reason* 
I  hinted  as  much,  saying,  "That  would  make  a  quiet 
world  of  it." 

"All  the  better,  my  dear  sir!"  The  professor 
turned  beamingly  upon  me  and  continued,  dropping 
into  a  Whistlerian  mannerism  that  he  had  sometimes: 
''You  must  not  blame  that  great  wind  of  a  Keredec 
for  preaching  at  other  people  to  listen.  It  gives  the 
poor  man  more  room  for  himself  to  talk!" 

I  found  his  talk  worth  hearing. 

I  would  show  you,  if  I  could,  our  pleasant  evenings 
of  lingering,  after  coffee,  behind  the  tremulous  screen 
of  honeysuckle,  with  the  night  very  dark  and  quiet 
beyond  the  warm  nimbus  of  our  candle-light,  the 
faces  of  my  two  companions  clear-obscure  in  a  mellow 


106  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

shadow  like  the  middle  tones  of  a  Rembrandt,  and 
the  professor,  good  man,  talking  wonderfully  of 
everything  under  the  stars  and  over  them, — while 
Oliver  Saffren  and  I  sat  under  the  spell  of  the  big, 
kind  voice,  the  young  man  listening  with  the  same 
eagerness  which  marked  him  when  he  spoke.  It 
was  an  eagerness  to  understand,  not  to  interrupt. 
These  were  our  evenings.  In  the  afternoons  the 
two  went  for  their  walk  as  usual,  though  now  they 
did  not  plunge  out  of  sight  of  the  main  road  with 
the  noticeable  haste  which  Amedee  had  described. 
As  time  pressed,  I  perceived  the  caution  of  Keredec 
visibly  slackening.  Whatever  he  had  feared,  the 
obscurity  and  continued  quiet  of  Les  Trois  Pigeons 
reassured  him;  he  felt  more  and  more  secure  in  this 
sheltered  retreat,  "far  out  of  the  world,"  and  obvi- 
ously '  thought  no  danger  imminent.  So  the  days 
went  by,  uneventful  for  my  new  friends, — days  of 
warm  idleness  for  me.  Let  them  go  unnarrated;  we 
pass  to  the  event. 

My  ankle  had  taken  its  wonted  time  to  recover. 
I  was  on  my  feet  again  and  into  the  woods — not 
traversing,  on  the  way,  a  certain  poppy-sprinkled 
field  whence  a  fine  Norman  stallion  snorted  ridicule 


CHAPTER  EIGHT  107 

over  a  wall.  But  the  fortune  of  Keredec  was  to 
sink  as  I  rose.  His  summer  rheumatism  returned, 
came  to  grips  with  him,  laid  him  low.  We  hobbled 
together  for  a  day  or  so,  then  I  threw  away  my 
stick  and  he  exchanged  his  for  an  improvised  crutch. 
By  the  time  I  was  fit  to  run,  he  was  able  to  do  little 
better  than  to  creep — might  well  have  taken  to  his 
bed.  But  as  he  insisted  that  his  pupil  should  not 
forego  the  daily  long  walks  and  the  health  of  the 
forest,  it  came  to  pass  that  Saffren  often  made  me 
the  objective  of  his  rambles.  At  dinner  he  usually 
asked  in  what  portion  of  the  forest  I  should  be  paint- 
ing late  the  next  afternoon,  and  I  got  in  the  habit 
of  expecting  him  to  join  me  toward  sunset.  We 
located  each  other  through  a  code  of  yodeling  that 
we1  arranged;  his  part  of  these  vocal  gymnastics 
being  very  pleasant  to  hear,  for  he  had  a  flexible, 
rich  voice.  I  shudder  to  recall  how  largely  my  own 
performances  partook  of  the  grotesque.  But  in  the 
forest  where  were  no  musical  persons  (I  supposed) 
to  take  hurt  from  whatever  noise  I  made,  I  would 
let  go  with  all  the  lungs  I  had;  he  followed  the 
horrid  sounds  to  their  origin,  and  we  would  return 
to  the  inn  together. 

On  these  homeward    walks  I  found    him  a  good 


108  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

companion,  and  that  is  something  not  to  be  under- 
valued by  a  selfish  man  who  lives  for  himself  and 
his  own  little  ways  and  his  own  little  thoughts,  and 
for  very  little  else, — which  is  the  kind  of  man  (as  I 
have  already  confessed)  that  I  was — deserving  the 
pity  of  all  happily  or  unhappily  married  persons. 

Responsive  in  kind  to  either  a  talkative  mood  or 
a  silent  one,  always  gentle  in  manner,  and  always 
unobtrusively  melancholy,  Saffren  never  took  the  ini- 
tiative, though  now  and  then  he  asked  a  question 
about  some  rather  simple  matter  which  might  be 
puzzling  him.  Whatever  the  answer,  he  usually 
received  it  in  silence,  apparently  turning  the  thing 
over  and  over  and  inside  out  in  his  mind.  He  was 
almost  tremulously  sensitive,  yet  not  vain,  for  he 
was  neither  afraid  nor  ashamed  to  expose  his  igno- 
rance, his  amazing  lack  of  experience.  He  had  a 
greater  trouble,  one  that  I  had  not  fathomed.  Some- 
times there  came  over  his  face  a  look  of  importunate 
wistfulness  and  distressed  perplexity,  and  he  seemed 
on  the  point  of  breaking  out  with  something  that 
he  wished  to  tell  me — or  to  ask  me,  for  it  might 
have  been  a  question — but  he  always  kept  it  back. 
Keredec's  training  seldom  lost  its  hold  upon  him. 

I  had  gone  back  to  my  glade  again,  and  to  the 


CHAPTER  EIGHT  109 

thin  sunshine,  which  came  a  little  earlier,  now  that 
we  were  deep  in  July;  and  one  afternoon  I  sat  in 
the  mouth  of  the  path,  just  where  I  had  played  the 
bounding  harlequin  for  the  benefit  of  the  lovely  vis- 
itor at  Quesnay.  It  was  warm  in  the  woods  and 
quiet,  warm  with  the  heat  of  July,  still  with  a  July 
stillness.  The  leaves  had  no  motion;  if  there  were 
birds  or  insects  within  hearing  they  must  have  been 
asleep;  the  quivering  flight  of  a  butterfly  in  that 
languid  air  seemed,  by  contrast,  quite  a  commotion; 
a  humming-bird  would  have  made  a  riot. 

I  heard  the  light  snapping  of  a  twig  and  a  swish 
of  branches  from  the  direction  in  which  I  faced; 
evidently  some  one  was  approaching  the  glade, 
though  concealed  from  me  for  the  moment  by  the 
winding  of  the  path.  Taking  it  for  Saffren,  as  a 
matter  of  course  (for  we  had  arranged  to  meet  at 
that  time  and  place),  I  raised  my  voice  in  what  I 
intended  for  a  merry  yodel  of  greeting. 

I  yodeled  loud,  I  yodeled  long.  Knowing  my  own 
deficiencies  in  this  art,  I  had  adopted  the  cunning 
sinner's  policy  toward  sin  and  made  a  joke  of  it: 
thus,  since  my  best  performance  was  not  unsugges- 
tive  of  calamity  in  the  poultry  yard,*  I  made  it  worse. 
And  then  and  there,  when  my  mouth  was  at  its  widest 


110  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

in  the  production  of  these  shocking  ulla-hootings,  the 
person  approaching  came  round  a  turn  in  the  path, 
and  within  full  sight  of  me.  To  my  ultimate,  utmost 
horror,  it  was  Madame  d'Armand. 

I  grew  so  furiously  red  that  it  burned  me.  I  had 
not  the  courage  to  run,  though  I  could  have  prayed 
that  she  might  take  me  for  what  I  seemed — plainly 
a  lunatic,  whooping  the  lonely  peace  of  the  woods 
into  pandemonium — and  turn  back.  But  she  kept 
straight  on,  must  inevitably  reach  the  glade  and 
cross  it,  and  I  calculated  wretchedly  that  at  the  rate 
she  was  walking,  unhurried  but  not  lagging,  it  would 
be  about  thirty  seconds  before  she  passed  me.  Then 
suddenly,  while  I  waited  in  sizzling  shame,  a  clear 
voice  rang  out  from  a  distance  in  an  answering  yodel 
to  mine,  and  I  thanked  heaven  for  its  mercies;  at 
least  she  would  see  that  my  antics  had  some  reason. 

She  stopped  short,  in  a  half -step,  as  if  a  little 
startled,  one  arm  raised  to  push  away  a  thin  green 
branch  that  crossed  the  path  at  shoulder-height; 
and  her  attitude  was  so  charming  as  she  paused, 
detained  to  listen  by  this  other  voice  with  its  musical 
youthfulness,  that  for  a  second  I  thought  crossly  of 
all  the  young  men  in  the  world. 

There  was  a  final  call,  clear  and  loud  as  a  bugle, 


CHAPTER  EIGHT  1 1 1 

and  she  turned  to  the  direction  whence  it  came,  so 
that  her  back  was  toward  me.  Then  Oliver  Saffren 
came  running  lightly  round  the  turn  of  the  path, 
near  her  and  fateing  her. 

He  stopped  as  short  as  she  had. 

Her  hand  dropped  from  the  slender  branch,  and 
pressed  against  her  side. 

He  lifted  his  hat  and  spoke  to  her,  and  I  thought 
she  made  some  quick  reply  in  a  low  voice,  though  I 
could  not.be  sure. 

She  held  that  startled  attitude  a  moment  longer, 
then  turned  and  crossed  the  glade  so  hurriedly  that 
it  was  almost  as  if  she  ran  away  from  him.  I  had 
moved  aside  with  my  easel  and  camp-stool,  but  she 
passed  close  to  me  as  she  entered  the  path  again  on 
my  side  of  the  glade.  She  did  not  seem  to  see  me, 
her  dark  eyes  stared  widely  straight  ahead,  her  lips 
were  parted,  and  she  looked  white  and  frightened. 

She  disappeared  very  quickly  in  the  windings  of 
the  path. 


CHAPTER  IX 

HE  came  on  more  slowly,  his  eyes  following 
her  as  she  vanished,  then  turning  to  me 
with   a   rather   pitiful   apprehension — a 
look  like  that  I  remember  to  have  seen  (some  hun- 
dreds of   years  ago)   on   the  face  of    a  freshman, 

glancing  up  from  his   book   to   find   his   doorway 

,  * 

ominously  filling  with  sophomores. 

I  stepped  out  to  meet  him,  indignant  upon  several 
counts,  most  of  all  upon  his  own.  I  knew  there  was 
no  offence  in  his  heart,  not  the  remotest  rude  intent, 
but  the  fact  was  before  me  that  he  had  frightened 
a  woman,  had  given  this  very  lovely  guest  of  my 
friends  good  cause  to  hold  him  a  boor,  if  she  did  not, 
indeed,  think  him  (as  she  probably  thought  me)  an 
outright  lunatic!  I  said: 

"You  spoke  to  that  lady!"  And  my  voice  sounded 
unexpectedly  harsh  and  sharp  to  my  own  ears,  for  I 
had  meant  to  speak  quietly. 

"I  know — I  know.  It — it  was  wrong,"  he  stam- 
mered. "I  knew  I  shouldn't — and  I  couldn't  help  it." 

"You  expect  me  to  believe  that?" 

112 


CHAPTER  NINE  113 

"It's  the  truth;  I  couldn't!" 

I  laughed  sceptically;  and  he  flinched,  but  repeated 
that  what  he  had  said  was  only  the  truth.  "I  don't 
understand;  it  was  all  beyond  me,"  he  added  huskily. 

"What  was  it  you  said  to  her?" 

"I  spoke  her  name — 'Madame  d'Armand."! 

"You  said  more  than  that!" 

"I  asked  her  if  she  would  let  me  see  her  again." 

"What  else?" 

"Nothing,"  he  answered  humbly.  "And  then  she 
• — then  for  a  moment  it  seemed — for  a  moment  she 
didn't  seem  to  be  able  to  speak 

"I  should  think  not!"  I  shouted,  and  burst  out 
at  him  with  satirical  laughter.  He  stood  patiently 
enduring  it,  his  lowered  eyes  following  the  aimless 
movements  of  his  hands,  which  were  twisting  and 
untwisting  his  flexible  straw  hat;  and  it  might  have 
struck  me  as  nearer  akin  to  tragedy  rather  than  to 
a  thing  for  laughter:  this  spectacle  of  a  grown  man 
so  like  a  schoolboy  before  the  master,  shamefaced 
over  a  stammered  confession. 

"But  she  did  say  something  to  you,  didn't  she?" 
I  asked  finally,  with  the  gentleness  of  a  cross- 
examining  lawyer. 

"Yes — after  that  moment." 


114  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

"Well,  what  was  it?" 

"She  said,  'Not  now!'  That  was  all." 

"I  suppose  that  was  all  she  had  breath  for!  It 
was  just  the  inconsequent  and  meaningless  thing  a 
frightened  woman  would  say!" 

"Meaningless?"  he  repeated,  and  looked  up  won- 
deringly. 

"Did  you  take  it  for  an  appointment?"  I  roared, 
quite  out  of  patience,  and  losing  my  temper  com- 
pletely. 

"No,  no,  no!    She  said  only  that,  and  then— 

"Then  she  turned  and  ran  away  from  you!" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  swallowing  painfully. 

"That  pleased  you,"  I  stormed,  "to  frighten  a 
woman  in  the  woods — to  make  her  feel  that  she  can't 
walk  here  in  safety!  You  enjoy  doing  things  like 
that?" 

He  looked  at  me  with  disconcerting  steadiness  for 
a  moment,  and,  without  offering  any  other  response, 
turned  aside,  resting  his  arm  against  the  trunk  of 
a  tree  and  gazing  into  the  quiet  forest. 

I  set  about  packing  my  traps,  grumbling  various 
sarcasms,  the  last  mutterings  of  a  departed  storm, 
for  already  I  realised  that  I  had  taken  out  my  own 
mortification  upon  him,  and  I  was  stricken  with 


CHAPTER  NINE  115 

i 

remorse.  And  yet,  so  contrarily  are  we  made,  I  con- 
tinued to  be  unkind  while  in  my  heart  I  was  asking 
pardon  of  him.  I  tried  to  make  my  reproaches  gen- 
tle •,  to  lend  my  voice  a  hint  of  friendly  humour,  but 
in  spite  of  me  the  one  sounded  gruffer  and  the  other 
soursr  with  everything  I  said.  This  was  the  worse 
becaise  of  the  continued  silence  of  the  victim:  he 
did  not  once  answer,  nor  by  the  slightest  movement 
alter  his  attitude  until  I  had  finished — and  more  than 
finished. 

"There — and  that's  all!"  I  said  desperately,  when 
the  things  were  strapped  and  I  had  slung  them  to 
my  shoulder.  "Let's  be  off,  in  heaven's  name!" 

At  that  he  turned  quickly  toward  me;  it  did  not 
lessen  my  remorse  to  see  that  he  had  grown  very  pale. 

"I  wouldn't  have  frightened  her  for  the  world," 
he  said,  and  his  voice  and  his  whole  body  shook  with 
a  strange  violence.  "I  wouldn't  have  frightened  her 
to  please  the  angels  in  heaven!" 

A  blunderer  whose  incantation  had  brought  the 
spirit  up  to  face  me,  I  stared  at  him  helplessly,  nor 
could  I  find  words  to  answer  or  control  the  passion 
that  my  imbecile  scolding  had  evoked.  Whatever 
the  barriers  Keredec's  training  had  built  for  his  pro- 
tection, they  were  down  now. 


116  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

"You  think  I  told  a  lie!"  he  cried.  "You  think 
I  lied  when  I  said  I  couldn't  help  speaking  to  her!" 

"No,  no,"  I  said  earnestly.    "I  didn't  mean— 

"Words!"  he  swept  the  feeble  protest  aw;y, 
drowned  in  a  whirling  vehemence.  "And  what  does 
it  matter?  You  can't  understand.  When  you  \\ant 
to  know  what  to  do,  you  look  back  into  your  life 
and  it  tells  you;  and  I  look  back — ah!'9  He  cried 
out,  uttering  a  half -choked,  incoherent  syllable.  "I 
look  back  and  it's  all — BLIND!  All  these  things  you 
can  do  and  can't  do — all  these  infinite  little  things! 
You  know,  and  Keredec  knows,  and  Glouglou  knows, 
and  every  mortal  soul  on  earth  knows — but  /  don't 
know!  Your  life  has  taught  you,  and  you  know, 
but  I  don't  know.  I  haven't  had  my  life.  It's  gone! 
All  I  have  is  words  that  Keredec  has  said  to  me,  and 
it's  like  a  man  with  no  eyes,  out  in  the  sunshine 
hunting  for  the  light.  Do  you  think  words  can 
teach  you  to  resist  such  impulses  as  I  had  when  I 
spoke  to  Madame  d'Armand?  Can  life  itself  teach 
you  to  resist  them?  Perhaps  you  never  had  them?" 

"I  don't  know,"  I  answered  honestly. 

"I  would  burn  my  hand  from  my  arm  and  my  arm 
from  my  body,"  he  went  on,  with  the  same  wild 
intensity,  "rather  than  trouble  her  or  frighten  her. 


CHAPTER  NINE  117 

but  I  couldn't  help  speaking  to  her  any  more  than 
I  can  help  wanting  to  see  her  again — the  feeling  that 
I  must — whatever  you  say  or  do,  whatever  Keredec 
says  or  does,  whatever  the  whole  world  may  say  or 
do.  And  I  will!  It  isn't  a  thing  to  choose  to  do,  or 
not  to  do.  I  can't  help  it  any  more  than  I  can  help 
being  alive!" 

He  paused,  wiping  from  his  brow  a  heavy  dew  not 
of  the  heat,  but  like  that  on  the  forehead  of  a  man 
in  crucial  pain.  I  made  nervous  haste  to  seize  the 
opportunity,  and  said  gently,  almost  timidly: 

"But  if  it  should  distress  the  lady?" 

"Yes — then  I  could  keep  away.  But  I  must  know 
that." 

"I  think  you  might  know  it  by  her  running  away 
—and  by  her  look,"  I  said  mildly.  "Didn't  you?" 

"No!"  And  his  eyes  flashed  an  added  emphasis. 

"Well,  well,"  I  said,  "let's  be  on  our  way,  or  the 
professor  will  be  wondering  if  he  is  to  dine  alone." 

Without  looking  to  see  if  he  followed,  I  struck 
into  the  path  toward  home.  He  did  follow,  obedi- 
ently enough,  not  uttering  another  word  so  long  as 
we  were  in  the  woods,  though  I  could  hear  him 
breathing  sharply  as  he  strode  behind  me,  and  knew 
that  he  was  struggling  to  regain  control  of  himself. 


118  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

I  set  the  pace,  making  it  as  fast  as  I  could,  and 
neither  of  us  spoke  again  until  we  had  corne  out  of 
the  forest  and  were  upon  the  main  road  near  the 
Baudry  cottage.  Then  he  said  in  a  steadier  voice: 

"Why  should  it  distress  her?" 

"Well,  you  see/'  I  began,  not  slackening  the  pace 
"there  are  formalities " 

"Ah,  I  know,"  he  interrupted,  with  an  impatient 
laugh.  "Keredec  once  took  me  to  a  marionette  show 
—all  the  little  people  strung  on  wires;  they  couldn't 
move  any  other  way.  And  so  you  mustn't  talk  to 
a  woman  until  somebody  whose  name  has  been 
spoken  to  you  speaks  yours  to  her !  Do  you  call  that 
a  rule  of  nature?" 

"My  dear  boy,"  I  laughed  in  some  desperation, 
"we  must  conform  to  it,  ordinarily,  no  matter  whose 
rule  it  is." 

"Do  you  think  Madame  d'Armand  cares  for  little 
forms  like  that?"  he  asked  challengingly. 

"She  does,"  I  assured  him  with  perfect  confidence. 
"And,  for  the  hundredth  time,  you  must  have  seen 
how  you  troubled  her." 

"No,"  he  returned,  with  the  same  curious  obsti- 
nacy, "I  don't  believe  it.  There  was  something,  but 
it  wasn't  trouble.  We  looked  straight  at  each  other; 


CHAPTER  NINE 

I  saw  her  eyes  plainly,  and  it  was —  "  he  paused  and 
sighed,  a  sudden,  brilliant  smile  upon  his  lips — "it 
was  very — it  was  very  strange!" 

There  was  something  so  glad  and  different  in  his 
look  that — like  any  other  dried-up  old  blunderer  in 
my  place — I  felt  an  instant  tendency  to  laugh.  It 
was  that  heathenish  possession,  the  old  insanity  of 
the  risibles,  which  makes  a  man  think  it  a  humourous 
thing  that  his  friend  should  be  discovered  in  love. 

But  before  I  spoke,  before  I  quite  smiled  outright, 
I  was  given  the  grace  to  see  myself  in  the  likeness 
of  a  leering  stranger  trespassing  in  some  cherished 
inclosure:  a  garden  where  the  gentlest  guests  must 
always  be  intruders,  and  only  the  owner  should  come. 
The  best  of  us  profane  it  readily,  leaving  the  coarse 
prints  of  our  heels  upon  its  paths,  mauling  and  man- 
handling the  fairy  blossoms  with  what  pudgy  fingers ! 
Comes  the  poet,  ruthlessly  leaping  the  wall  and 
trumpeting  indecently  his  view-halloo  of  the  chase, 
and,  after  him,  the  joker,  snickering  and  hopeful  of 
a  kill  among  the  rose-beds;  for  this  has  been  their 
hunting-ground  since  the  world  began.  These  two 
have  made  us  miserably  ashamed  of  the  divine  infini- 
tive, so  that  we  are  afraid  to  utter  the  very  words 
"to  love,"  lest  some  urchin  overhear  and  pursue  us 


120  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

with  a  sticky  forefinger  and  stickier  taunts.  It  is 
little  to  my  credit  that  I  checked  the  silly  impulse 
to  giggle  at  the  eternal  marvel,  and  went  as  gentlj 
as  I  could  where  I  should  not  have  gone  at  all. 

"But  if  you  were  wrong,"  I  said,  "if  it  did  distress 
her,  and  if  it  happened  that  she  has  already  had  toe 
much  that  was  distressing  in  her  life 

"You  know  something  about  her!"  he  exclaimed 
"You  know " 

"I  do  not,"  I  interrupted  in  turn.  "I  have  onlj 
a  vague  guess;  I  may  be  altogether  mistaken." 

"What  is  it  that  you  guess?"  he  demandec 
abruptly.  "Who  made  her  suffer?" 

"I  think  it  was  her  husband,"  I  said,  with  a  lad 
of  discretion  for  which  I  was  instantly  sorry,  fearing 
with  reason  that  I  had  added  a  final  blunder  to  the 
long  list  of  the  afternoon.  "That  is,"  I  added, 
"if  my  guess  is  right." 

He  stopped  short  in  the  road,  detaining  me  bj 
the  arm,  the  question  coming  like  a  whip-crack 
sharp,  loud,  violent. 

"Is  he  alive?" 

"I  don't  know,"  I  answered,  beginning  to  move 
forward;  "and  this  is  foolish  talk — especially  on  my 
part!" 


CHAPTER  NINE 

"But  I  want  to  know,"  he  persisted,  again  detain- 
ing me. 

"And  I  don't  know!"  I  returned  emphatically. 
"Probably  I  am  entirely  mistaken  in  thinking  that 
I  know  anything  of  her  whatever.  I  ought  not  to 
have  spoken,  unless  I  knew  what  I  was  talking 
about,  and  I'd  rather  not  say  any  more  until  I  do 
know." 

"Very  well,"  he  said  quickly.  "Will  you  tell  me 
then?" 

"Yes— if  you  will  let  it  go  at  that." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  and  with  an  impulse  which 
was  but  too  plainly  one  of  gratitude,  offered  me 
his  hand.  I  took  it,  and  my  soul  was  disquieted 
within  me,  for  it  was  no  purpose  of  mine  to  set  in- 
quiries on  foot  in  regard  to  the  affairs  of  "Madame 
d'Armand." 

It  was  early  dusk,  that  hour,  a  little  silvered  but 
still  clear,  when  the  edges  of  things  are  beginning  to 
grow  indefinite,  and  usually  our  sleepy  countryside 
knew  no  tranquiller  time  of  day;  but  to-night,  as  we 
approached  the  inn,  there  were  strange  shapes  in 
the  roadway  and  other  tokens  that  events  were 
stirring  there. 


THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

From  the  courtyard  came  the  sounds  of  laughter 
and  chattering  voices.  Before  the  entrance  stood  a 
couple  of  open  touring-cars;  the  chauffeurs  engaged 
in  cooling  the  rear  tires  with  buckets  of  water  brought 
by  a  personage  ordinarily  known  as  Glouglou,  whose 
look  and  manner,  as  he  performed  this  office  for  the 
leathern  dignitaries,  so  awed  me  that  I  wondered  I 
had  ever  dared  address  him  with  any  presumption 
of  intimacy.  The  cars  were  great  and  opulent,  of 
impressive  wheel-base,  and  fore-and-aft  they  were 
laden  intricately  with  baggage:  concave  trunks  fit- 
ting behind  the  tonneaus,  thin  trunks  fastened  upon 
the  footboards,  green,  circular  trunks  adjusted  to  the 
spare  tires,  all  deeply  coated  with  dust.  Here  were 
fineries  from  Paris,  doubtless  on  their  way  to  flutter 
over  the  gay  sands  of  Trouville,  and  now  wandering 
but  temporarily  from  the  road;  for  such  splendours 
were  never  designed  to  dazzle  us  of  Madame  Bros- 
sard's. 

We  were  crossing  before  the  machines  when  one  of 
the  drivers  saw  fit  to  crank  his  engine  (if  that  is  the 
knowing  phrase)  and  the  thing  shook  out  the  usual 
vibrating  uproar.  It  had  a  devastating  effect  upon 
my  companion.  He  uttered  a  wild  exclamation  and 
sprang  sideways  into  me,  almost  upsetting  us  both. 


CHAPTER  NINE  123 

"What  on  earth  is  the  matter?"  I  asked.  "Did 
you  think  the  car  was  starting?" 

He  turned  toward  me  a  face  upon  which  was  im- 
printed the  sheer,  blank  terror  of  a  child.  It  passed 
in  an  instant  however,  and  he  laughed. 

"I  really  didn't  know.  Everything  has  been  so 
quiet  always,  out  here  in  the  country — and  that 
horrible  racket  coming  so  suddenly- 
Laughing  with  him,  I  took  his  arm  and  we  turned 
to  enter  the  archway.  As  we  did  so  we  almost  ran 
into  a  tall  man  who  was  coming  out,  evidently  intend- 
ing to  speak  to  one  of  the  drivers. 

The  stranger  stepped  back  with  a  word  of  apology, 
and  I  took  note  of  him  for  a  fellow-countryman,  and 
a  worldly  buck  of  fashion  indeed,  almost  as  cap-a-pie 
the  automobilist  as  my  mysterious  spiller  of  cider  had 
been  the  pedestrian.  But  this  was  no  game-chicken; 
on  the  contrary  (so  far  as  a  glance  in  the  dusk  of  the 
archway  revealed  him),  much  the  picture  for  framing 
in  a  club  window  of  a  Sunday  morning;  a  seasoned, 
hard-surfaced,  knowing  creature  for  whom  many  a 
head  waiter  must  have  swept  previous  claimants 
from  desired  tables.  He  looked  forty  years  so  can- 
nily  that  I  guessed  him  to  be  about  fifty. 

We  were  passing  him  when  he  uttered  an  ejacula- 


124  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

tion  of  surprise  and  stepped  forward  again,  holding 
out  his  hand  to  my  companion,  and  exclaiming: 

"Where  did  you  come  from?  I'd  hardly  have 
known  you." 

Oliver  seemed  unconscious  of  the  proffered  hand; 
he  stiffened  visibly  and  said: 

"I  think  there  must  be  some  mistake." 

"So  there  is,"  said  the  other  promptly.  "I  have 
been  misled  by  a  resemblance.  I  beg  your  pardon." 

He  lifted  his  cap  slightly,  going  on,  and  we  entered 
the  courtyard  to  find  a  cheerful  party  of  nine  or  ten 
men  and  women  seated  about  a  couple  of  tables. 
Like  the  person  we  had  just  encountered,  they  all 
exhibited  a  picturesque  elaboration  of  the  costume 
permitted  by  their  mode  of  travel;  making  effective 
groupings  in  their  ample  draperies  of  buff  and  green 
and  white,  with  glimpses  of  a  flushed  and  pretty 
face  or  two  among  the  loosened  veilings.  Upon  the 
tables  were  pots  of  tea,  plates  of  sandwiches,  Madame 
Brossard's  three  best  silver  dishes  heaped  with  fruit, 
and  some  bottles  of  dry  champagne  from  the  cellars 
of  Rheims.  The  partakers  were  making  very  merry, 
having  with  them  (as  is  inevitable  in  all  such  parties, 
it  seems)  a  fat  young  man  inclined  to  humour,  who 
was  now  upon  his  feet  for  the  proposal  of  some 


CHAPTER  NINE  125 

prankish  toast.  He  interrupted  himself  long  enough 
to  glance  our  way  as  we  crossed  the  garden;  and  it 
struck  me  that  several  pairs  of  brighter  eyes  followed 
my  young  companion  with  interest.  He  was  well 
worth  it,  perhaps  all  the  more  because  he  was  so 
genuinely  unconscious  of  it;  and  he  ran  up  the  gallery 
steps  and  disappeared  into  his  own  rooms  without 
sending  even  a  glance  from  the  corner  of  his  eye 
in  return. 

I  went  almost  as  quickly  to  my  pavilion,  and, 
without  lighting  my  lamp,  set  about  my  prepara- 
tions for  dinner. 

The  party  outside,  breaking  up  presently,  could 
be  heard  moving  toward  the  archway  with  increased 
noise  and  laughter,  inspired  by  some  exquisite  antic 
on  the  part  of  the  fat  young  man,  when  a  girl's 
voice  (a  very  attractive  voice)  called,  "Oh,  Cressie, 
aren't  you  coming?"  and  a  man's  replied,  from  near 
my  veranda:  "Only  stopping  to  light  a  cigar." 

A  flutter  of  skirts  and  a  patter  of  feet  betokened 
that  the  girl  came  running  back  to  join  the  smoker. 
"Cressie,"  I  heard  her  say  in  an  eager,  lowered  tone, 
"who  was  he?" 

"Who  was  who?" 

"That  devastating  creature  in  white  flannels!" 


126  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

The  man  chuckled.    "Matinee  sort  of  devastate 
what?     Monte  Cristo  hair,  noble  profile— 

"You'd  better  tell  me,"  she  interrupted  earnestly 
— "if  you  don't  want  me  to  ask  the  waiter" 

"But  I  don't  know  him." 

"I  saw  you  speak  to  him." 

"I  thought  it  was  a  man  I  met  three  years  ago 
out  in  San  Francisco,  but  I  was  mistaken.  There  was 
a  slight  resemblance.  This  fellow  might  have  been 
a  rather  decent  younger  brother  of  the  man  I  knew. 
He  was  the " 

My  strong  impression  was  that  if  the  speaker 
had  not  been  interrupted  at  this  point  he  would  have 
said  something  very  unfavourable  to  the  character 

•-xv 

of  the  man  he  had  met  in  San  Francisco;  but  there 
came  a  series  of  blasts  from  the  automobile  horns 
and  loud  calls  from  others  of  the  party,  who  were 
evidently  waiting  for  these  two. 

"Coming!"  shouted  the  man. 

"Wait!"  said  his  companion  hurriedly.  "Who  was 
the  other  man,  the  older  one  with  the  painting  things 
and  such  a  coat?" 

"Never  saw  him  before  in  my  life." 

I  caught  a  last  word  from  the  girl  as  the  pair 
moved  away. 


CHAPTER  NINE 

"I'll  come  back  here  with  a  band  to-morrow 
night,  and  serenade  the  beautiful  one. 

"Perhaps  he'd  drop  me  his  card  out  of  the  win- 
dow!" 

The  horns  sounded  again;  there  was  a  final  chorus 
of  laughter,  suddenly  ceasing  to  be  heard  as  the  cars 
swept  away,  and  Les  Trois  Pigeons  was  left  to  its 
accustomed  quiet. 

"Monsieur  is  served,"  said  Amedee,  looking  in  at 
my  door,  five  minutes  later. 

"You  have  passed  a  great  hour  just  now, 
Amedee." 

"It  was  like  the  old  days,  truly!" 

"They  are  off  for  Trouville,  I  suppose." 

"No,  monsieur,  they  are  on  then*  way  to  visit  the 
chateau,  and  stopped  here  only  because  the  run  from 
Paris  had  made  the  tires  too  hot." 

"To  visit  Quesnay,  you  mean?" 

"Truly.  But  monsieur  need  give  himself  no  uneasi- 
ness; I  did  not  mention  to  any  one  that  monsieur  is 
here.  His  name  was  not  spoken.  Mademoiselle 
Ward  returned  to  the  chateau  to-day,"  he  added. 
"She  has  been  in  England." 

"Quesnay  will  be  gay,"  I  said,  coming  out  to  the 
table.  Oliver  Saffren  was  helping  the  professor  down 


128  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

the  steps,  and  Keredec,  bent  with  suffering,  but 
indomitable,  gave  me  a  hearty  greeting,  and  began 
a  ruthless  dissection  of  Plato  with  the  soup.  Oliver, 
usually  very  quiet,  as  I  have  said,  seemed  a  little 
restless  under  the  discourse  to-night.  However,  he 
did  not  interrupt,  sitting  patiently  until  bedtime, 
though  obviously  not  listening.  When  he  bade  me 
good  night  he  gave  me  a  look  so  clearly  in  reference 
to  a  secret  understanding  between  us  that,  meaning 
to  keep  only  the  letter  of  my  promise  to  him,  I  felt 
about  as  comfortable  as  if  I  had  meanly  tricked 
a  child. 


CHAPTER  X 

I  HAD  finished  dressing,  next  morning,  and  was 
strapping  my  things  together  for  the  day's 
campaign,  when  I  heard  a  shuffling  step  upon 
the  porch,  and  the  door  opened  gently,  without  any 
previous  ceremony  of  knocking.  To  my  angle  of 
vision  what  at  first  appeared  to  have  opened  it  was 
a  tray  of  coffee,  rolls,  eggs,  and  a  packet  of  sand- 
wiches, but,  after  hesitating  somewhat,  this  appari- 
tion advanced  farther  into  the  room,  disclosing  a 
pair  of  supporting  hands,  followed  in  due  time  by  the 
whole  person  of  a  nervously  smiling  and  visibly 
apprehensive  Amedee.  He  closed  the  door  behind 
him  by  the  simple  action  of  backing  against  it,  took 
the  cloth  from  his  arm,  and  with  a  single  gesture 
spread  it  neatly  upon  a  small  table,  then,  turning  to 
me,  laid  the  forefinger  of  his  right  hand  warningly 
upon  his  lips  and  bowed  me  a  deferential  invitation 
to  occupy  the  chair  beside  the  table. 

"Well,"  I  said,  glaring  at  him,  "what  ails  you?" 

"I  thought  monsieur  might  prefer  his  breakfast 

indoors,  this  morning,"  he  returned  in  a  low  voice 

"Why  should  I?" 

129 


130  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

The  miserable  old  man  said  something  I  did  not 
understand — an  incoherent  syllable  or  two — sud- 
denly covered  his  mo\ith  with  both  hands,  and  turned 
away.  I  heard  a  catch  in  his  throat;  suffocated 
sounds  issued  from  his  bosom;  however,  it  was 
nothing  more  than  a  momentary  seizure,  and,  recover- 
ing command  of  himself  by  a  powerful  effort,  he 
faced  me  with  hypocritical  servility. 

"Why  do  you  laugh?"  I  asked  indignantly. 

"But  I  did  not  laugh,"  he  replied  in  a  husky 
whisper.  "Not  at  all." 

"You  did,"  I  asserted,  raising  my  voice.  "It 
.  almost  killed  you!" 

"Monsieur,"  he  begged  hoarsely,  "hush!" 

"What  is  the  matter?"  I  demanded  loudly. 
"What  do  you  mean  by  these  abominable  croakings? 
Speak  out!" 

"Monsieur — "  he  gesticulated  in  a  panic,  toward 
the  courtyard.  "Mademoiselle  Ward  is  out  there." 

"What!"  But  I  did  not  shout  the  word. 

"There  is  always  a  little  window  in  the  rear  wall" 
he  breathed  in  my  ear  as  I  dropped  into  the  chair 
by  the  table.  "She  would  not  see  you  if— 

I  interrupted  with  all  the  French  rough-and-ready 
expressions  of  dislike  at  my  command,  daring  to 


CHAPTER  TEN  131 

hope  that  they  might  give  him  some  shadowy,  far- 
away idea  of  what  I  thought  of  both  himself  and 
his  suggestions,  and,  notwithstanding  the  difficulty 
of  expressing  strong  feeling  in  whispers,  it  seemed 
to  me  that,  in  a  measure,  I  succeeded.  "I  am  not 
in  the  habit  of  crawling  out  of  ventilators,"  I  added, 
subduing  a  tendency  to  vehemence.  "And  probably 
Mademoiselle  Ward  has  only  come  to  talk  with 
Madame  Brossard." 

"I  fear  some  of  those  people  may  have  told  her 
you  were  here,"  he  ventured  insinuatingly. 

"What  people?"  I  asked,  drinking  my  coffee 
calmly,  yet,  it  must  be  confessed,  without  quite 
the  deliberation  I  could  have  wished. 

"Those  who  stopped  yesterday  evening  on  the 
way  to  the  chateau.  They  might  have  recog- 
nised- 

"Impossible.     I  knew  none  of  them." 

"But  Mademoiselle  Ward  knows  that  you  are 
here.  Without  doubt." 

"Why  do  you  say  so?" 

"Because  she  has  inquired  for  you." 

"So!"  I  rose  at  once  and  went  toward  the  door. 
"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  at  once?" 

"But    surely,"    he    remonstrated,    ignoring    my 


132  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

question,    "monsieur    will    make    some    change    of 
attire?" 

"Change  of  attire?"  I  echoed. 

"Eh,  the  poor  old  coat  all  hunched  at  the  shoul- 
ders and  spotted  with  paint!" 

"Why  shouldn't  it  be?"  I  hissed,  thoroughly  irri- 
tated. "Do  you  take  me  for  a  racing  mar- 
quis?" 

"But  monsieur  has  a  coat  much  more  as  a  coat 
ought  to  be.  And  Jean  Ferret  says " 

"Ha,  now  we're  getting  at  it!"  said  I.     "What* 
does  Jean  Ferret  say?" 

"Perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  I  did  not  re- 
peat— 

"Out  with  it!    What  does  Jean  Ferret  say?" 

"Well,  then,  Mademoiselle  Ward's  maid  from 
Paris  has  told  Jean  Ferret  that  monsieur  and 
Mademoiselle  Ward  have  corresponded  for  years, 
and  that — and  that— 

"Go  on,"  I  bade  him  ominously. 

"That  monsieur  has  sent  Mademoiselle  Ward 
many  expensive  jewels,  and — 


"Aha!"  said  I,  at  which  he  paused  abruptly, 
and  stood  staring  at  me.  The  idea  of  explaining 
Miss  Elizabeth's  collection  to  him,  of  getting  any- 


CHAPTER  TEN  133 

thing  whatever  through  that  complacent  head  of 
his,  was  so  hopeless  that  I  did  not  even  consider 
it.  There  was  only  one  thing  to  do,  and  perhaps  I 
should  have  done  it — I  do  not  know,  for  he  saw 
the  menace  coiling  in  my  eye,  and  hurriedly  re- 
treated. 

"Monsieur!"  he  gasped,  backing  away  from  me, 
and  as  his  hand,  fumbling  behind  him,  found 
the  latch  of  the  door,  he  opened  it,  and  scrambled 
out  by  a  sort  of  spiral  movement  round  the  casing. 
When  I  followed,  a  moment  later — with  my  traps 
on  my  shoulder  and  the  packet  of  sandwiches  in 
my  pocket — he  was  out  of  sight. 

Miss  Elizabeth  sat  beneath  the  arbour  at  the 
other  end  of  the  courtyard,  and  beside  her  stood 
the  trim  and  glossy  bay  saddle-horse  that  she  had 
tidden  from  Quesnay,  his  head  outstretched  above 
his  mistress  to  paddle  at  the  vine  leaves  with  a  trem- 
ulous upper  lip.  She  checked  his  desire  with  a 
slight  movement  of  her  hand  upon  the  bridle-rein; 
and  he  arched  his  neck  prettily,  pawing  the  gravel 
with  a  neat  forefoot.  Miss  Elizabeth  is  one  of  the 
few  large  women  I  have  known  to  whom  a  riding- 
habit  is  entirely  becoming,  and  this  group  of  two — 
a  handsome  woman  and  her  handsome  horse — has 


134  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

had  a  charm  for  all  men  ever  since  horses  were 
tamed  and  women  began  to  be  beautiful.  I  thought 
of  my  work,  of  the  canvases  I  meant  to  cover,  but 
I  felt  the  charm — and  I  felt  it  stirringly.  It  was 
a  fine,  fresh  morning,  and  the  sun  just  risen. 

An  expression  in  the  lady's  attitude,  and  air 
which  I  instinctively  construed  as  histrionic,  seemed 
intended  to  convey  that  she  had  been  kept  waiting, 
yet  had  waited  without  reproach;  and  although  she 
must  have  heard  me  coming,  she  did  not  look 
toward  me  until  I  was  quite  near  and  spoke  her 
name.  At  that  she  sprang  up  quickly  enough,  and 
stretched  out  her  hand  to  me. 

"Run  to  earth!"  she  cried,  advancing  a  step  to 
meet  me. 

"A  pretty  poor  trophy  of  the  chase,"  said  I, 
"but  proud  that  you  are  its  killer." 

To  my  surprise  and  mystification,  her  cheeks  and 
brow  flushed  rosily;  she  was  obviously  conscious 
of  it,  and  laughed. 

"Don't  be  embarrassed,"  she  said. 

"I!" 

"Yes,  you,  poor  man!  I  suppose  I  couldn't  have 
more  thoroughly  compromised  you.  Madame  Bros- 
sard  will  never  believe  in  your  respectability  again." 


CHAPTER  TEN  135 

"Oh,  yes,  she  will,"  said  I. 

"What?  A  lodger  who  has  ladies  calling  upon 
him  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning?  But  your  bun- 
dle's on  your  shoulder,"  she  rattled  on,  laughing, 
"though  there's  many  could  be  bolder,  and  perhaps 
you'll  let  me  walk  a  bit  of  the  way  with  you,  if 
you're  for  the  road." 

"Perhaps  I  will,"  said  I.  She  caught  up  her 
riding-skirt,  fastening  it  by  a  clasp  at  her  side, 
and  we  passed  out  through  the  archway  and  went 
slowly  along  the  road  bordering  the  forest,  her  horse 
following  obediently  at  half-rein's  length. 

"When  did  you  hear  that  I  was  at  Madame 
Brossard's?"  I  asked. 

"Ten  minutes  after  I  returned  to  Quesnay,  late 
yesterday  afternoon." 

"Who  told  you?" 

"Louise." 

I  repeated  the  name  questioningly.  "You  mean 
Mrs.  Larrabee  Hannan?" 

"Louise  Harman,"  she  corrected.  "Didn't  you 
know  she  was  staying  at  Quesnay?" 

"I  guessed  it,  though  Amedee  got  the  name 
confused." 

"Yes,  she's  been  kind  enough  to  look  after  the 


136  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

place  for  us  while  we  were  away.  George  won't 
be  back  for  another  ten  days,  and  I've  been  over- 
seeing an  exhibition  for  him  hi  London.  After- 
ward I  did  a  round  of  visits — tiresome  enough,  but 
among  people  it's  well  to  keep  in  touch  with  on 
George's  account." 

"I  see,"  I  said,  with  a  grimness  which  probably 
escaped  her.  "But  how  did  Mrs.  Harman  know 
that  I  was  at  Les  Trois  Pigeons?" 

"She  met  you  once  in  the  forest " 

"Twice,"  I  interrupted. 

"She  mentioned  only  once.  Of  course  she'd  often 
heard  both  George  and  me  speak  of  you." 

"But  how  did  she  know  it  was  I  and  where  I 
was  staying?" 

"Oh,  that?"  Her  smile  changed  to  a  laugh. 
"Your  maiire  d 'hotel  told  Ferret,  a  gardener  at 
Quesnay,  that  you  were  at  the  inn." 

"He  did!" 

"Oh,  but  you  mustn't  be  angry  with  him;  he  made 
it  quite  all  right." 

"How  did  he  do  that?"  I  asked,  trying  to  speak 
calmly,  though  there  was  that  in  my  rnind  which 
might  have  blanched  the  parchment  cheek  of  a 
grand  inquisitor. 


CHAPTER  TEN  137 

i 
"He  told  Ferret  that  you  were  very  anxious  not 

to  have  it  known— 

"You  call  that  making  it  all  right?" 

"For  himself,  I  mean.  He  asked  Ferret  not  to 
mention  who  it  was  that  told  him." 

"The  rascal!"  I  cried.  "The  treacherous, 
brazen " 

"Unfortunate  man,"  said  Miss  Elizabeth,  "don't 
you  see  how  clear  you're  making  it  that  you  really 
meant  to  hide  from  us?" 

There  seemed  to  be  something  in  that,  and  my 
tirade  broke  up  in  confusion.  "Oh,  no,"  I  said 
lamely,  "I  hoped — I  hoped 

"Be  careful!" 

"No;  I  hoped  to  work  down  here,"  I  blurted. 
"And  I  thought  if  I  saw  too  much  of  you — I  might 
not." 

She  looked  at  me  with  widening  eyes.  "And  I 
can  take  my  choice,"  she  cried,  "of  all  the  different 
things  you  may  mean  by  that!  It's  either  the  most 
outrageous  speech  I  ever  heard — or  the  most  flat- 
tering." 

"But  I  meant  simply— 


"No."      She   lifted  .  her  hand   and   stopped   me. 
I'd  rather  believe  that  I  have  at  least  the  choice 


138  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

— and  let  it  go  at  that."  And  as  I  began  to  laugh, 
she  turned  to  me  with  a  gravity  apparently  so 
genuine  that  for  the  moment  I  was  fatuous  enough 
to  believe  that  she  had  said  it  seriously.  Ensued 
a  pause  of  some  duration,  which,  for  my  part,  I 
found  disturbing.  She  broke  it  with  a  change  of 
subject. 

"You  think  Louise  very  lovely  to  look  at,  don't 
you?" 

"Exquisite,"  I  answered. 

"Every  one  does." 

"I  suppose  she  told  you—  "  and  now  I  felt  myself 
growing  red — "that  I  behaved  like  a  drunken  acro- 
bat when  she  came  upon  me  in  the  path." 

"No.  Did  you?"  cried  Miss  Elizabeth,  with  a 
ready  credulity  which  I  thought  by  no  means 
pretty;  indeed,  she  seemed  amused  and,  to  my 
surprise  (for  she  is  not  an  unkind  woman),  rather 
heartlessly  pleased.  "Louise  only  said  she  knew 
it  must  be  you,  and  that  she  wished  she  could  have 
had  a  better  look  at  what  you  were  painting."  < 

"Heaven  bless  her!"  I  exclaimed.  "Her  reticence 
was  angelic." 

"Yes,  she  has  reticence,"  said  my  companion, 
with  enough  of  the  same  quality  to  make  me  look 


CHAPTER  TEN  139 

at  her  quickly.  A  thin  line  had  been  drawn  across 
her  forehead. 

"You  mean  she's  still  reticent  with  George?" 
I  ventured. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  sadly.  "Poor  George  al- 
ways hopes,  of  course,  in  the  silent  way  of  his 
kind  when  they  suffer  from  such  unfortunate  pas- 
sions— and  he  waits." 

"I  suppose  that  former  husband  of  hers  re- 
covered?" 

"I  believe  he's  still  alive  somewhere.  Locked 
up,  I  hope!"  she  finished  crisply. 

"She  retained  his  name/5  I  observed. 

"Harman?  Yes,  she  retained  it,"  said  my  com- 
panion rather  shortly. 

"At  all  events,  she's  rid  of  him,  isn't  she?" 

"Oh,  she's  rid  of  him!"  Her  tone  implied  an 
enigmatic  reservation  of  some  kind. 

"It's  hard,"  I  reflected  aloud,  "hard  to  under- 
stand  her  making  that  mistake,  young  as  she  was, 
Even  in  the  glimpses  of  her  I've  had,  it  was  easy 
to  see  something  of  what  she's  like:  a  fine,  rare, 
high  type " 

"But  you  didn't  know  him,  did  you?"  Miss 
Elizabeth  asked  with  some  dry  ness. 


140  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

"No,"  I  answered.  "I  saw  him  twice;  once  at 
the  time  of  his  accident — that  was  only  a  night- 
mare, his  face  covered  with — "  I  shivered.  "But 
I  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  on  the  boulevard, 
and  of  all  the  dreadful " 

"Oh,  but  he  wasn't  always  dreadful,"  she  inter- 
posed quickly.  "He  was  a  fascinating  sort  of  person, 
quite  charming  and  good-looking,  when  she  ran 
away  with  him,  though  he  was  horribly  dissipated 
even  then.  He  always  had  been  that.  Of  course 
she  thought  she'd  be  able  to  straighten  him  out 
—poor  girl!  She  tried,  for  three  years — three  years 
it  hurts  one  to  think  of!  You  see  it  must  have 
been  something  very  like  a  'grand  passion'  to  hold 
her  through  a  pain  three  years  long." 

"Or  tremendous  pride,"  said  I.  "Women  make 
an  odd  world  of  it  for  the  rest  of  us.  There  was 
good  old  George,  as  true  and  straight  a  man  as 
ever  lived " 

"And  she  took  the  other!  Yes."  George's  sister 
laughed  sorrowfully. 

"But  George  and  she  have  both  survived  the  mis- 
take," I  went  on  with  confidence.  "Her  tragedy 
must  have  taught  her  some  important  differ- 
ences. Haven't  you  a  notion  she'll  be  tremen- 


CHAPTER  TEN  141 

Joos\y  s'/a^  ~fo  see  him  when  he  comes  back  from 

I  <4c7  hepe  so!"  she  cried.     "You  see,  I'm 
he  hopes   so   too  —  to   the   degree   of 


"Yo  /  'Xon't  count  on  it  yourself?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "With  any  other  woman 
I  should." 

"Why  not  with  Mrs.  Harman?" 

''Cousin  Louise  has  her  ways,"  said  Miss  Eliza- 
beth slowly,  and,  whether  she  could  not  further 
explain  her  doubts,  or  whether  she  would  not, 
that  was  all  I  got  out  of  her  on  the  subject  at  the 
time.  I  asked  one  or  two  more  questions,  but  my 
companion  merely  shook  her  head  again,  alluding 
vaguely  to  her  cousin's  "ways."  Then  she  bright- 
ened suddenly,  and  inquired  when  I  would  have 
my  things  sent  up  to  the  chateau  from  the 

inn. 

• 

At  the  risk  of  a  misunderstanding  which  I  felt 
I  could  ill  afford,  I  resisted  her  kind  hospitality, 
and  the  outcome  of  it  was  that  there  should  be  a 
kind  of  armistice,  to  begin  with  my  dining  at  the 
chateau  that  evening.  Thereupon  she  mounted  to 
the  saddle,  a  bit  of  gymnastics  for  which  she  de- 


142  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

clined  my  assistance,  and  looked  down  upon  me 
from  a  great  height. 

"Did  anybody  ever  tell  you,"  was  her  surprising 
inquiry,  "that  you  are  the  queerest  man  of  these 
times?" 

"No,"  I  answered.  "Don't  you  think  you're  a 
queerer  woman?" 

"Footle!"  she  cried  scornfully.  "Be  off  to  your 
woods  and  your  woodscaping !" 

The  bay  horse  departed  at  a  smart  gait,  not,  I 
was  glad  to  see,  a  parkish  trot — Miss  Elizabeth 
wisely  set  limits  to  her  sacrifices  to  Mode — and  she 
was  far  down  the  road  before  I  had  passed  the  outer 
fringe  of  trees. 

My  work  was  accomplished  after  a  fashion  more 
or  less  desultory  that  day;  I  had  many  absent 
moments,  was  restless,  and  walked  more  than  I 
painted.  Oliver  Saffren  did  not  join  me  in  the 
late  afternoon;  nor  did  the  echo  of  distant  yodelling 
bespeak  any  effort  on  his  part  to  find  me.  So  I 
gave  him  up,  and  returned  to  the  inn  earlier  than 
usual. 

While  dressing  I  sent  word  to  Professor  Keredec 
that  I  should  not  be  able  to  join  'him  at  dinner 
tiiat  evening;  and  it  is  to  be  recorded  that  Glouglou 


CHAPTER  TEN  143 

carried  the  message  for  me.  Amedee  did  not  appear, 
from  which  it  may  be  inferred  that  our  maitre 
d'hdtel  was  subject  to  lucid  intervals.  Certainly 
his  present  shyness  indicated  an  intelligence  of  no 
low  order. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  dining-room  at  Quesnay  is  a  pretty 
work  of  the  second  of  those  three  Louises 
who  made  so  much  furniture.  It  was 
never  a  proper  setting  for  a  rusty,  out-of-doors 
painter-man,  nor  has  such  a  fellow  ever  found  him- 
self complacently  at  ease  there  since  the  day  its 
first  banquet  was  spread  for  a  score  or  so  of  fine- 
feathered  epigram  jinglers,  fiddling  Versailles  gossip 
out  of  a  rouge-and-lace  Quesnay  marquise  newlj 
sent  into  half -earnest  banishment  for  too  much  king- 
hunting.  For  my  part,  however,  I  should  have 
preferred  a  chance  at  making  a  place  for  myseli 
among  the  wigs  and  brocades  to  the  Crusoe's  Isle 
of  my  chair  at  Miss  Elizabeth's  table. 

I  learned  at  an  early  age  to  look  my  vanities  in 
the  face;  I  outfaced  them  and  they  quailed,  but 
persisted,  surviving  for  my  discomfort  to  this  day, 
Here  is  the  confession:  It  was  not  until  my  arrival 
at  the  chateau  that  I  realised  what  temerity  it  in- 
volved to  dine  there  in  evening  clothes  purchased, 

some  four  or  five  or  six  years  previously,  in  the 

144 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN  145 

economical  neighbourhood  of  the  Boulevard  St. 
Michel.  Yet  the  things  fitted  me  well  enough;  were 
clean  and  not  shiny,  having  been  worn  no  more 
than  a  dozen  times,  I  think;  though  they  might 
have  been  better  pressed. 

Looking  over  the  men  of  the  Quesnay  party — or 
perhaps  I  should  signify  a  reversal  of  that  and  say 
a  glance  of  theirs  at  me — revealed  the  importance 
of  a  particular  length  of  coat-tail,  of  a  certain  rich 
effect  obtained  by  widely  separating  the  lower  points 
of  the  waistcoat,  of  the  display  of  some  imagina- 
tion in  the  buttons  upon  the  same  garment,  of  a 
doubled-back  arrangement  of  cuffs,  and  of  a  specific 
design  and  dimension  of  tie.  Marked  uniformity 
in  these  matters  denoted  their  necessity;  and  clothes 
differing  from  the  essential  so  vitally  as  did  mine 
must  have  seemed  immodest,  little  better  than  no 
clothes  ,at  all.  I  doubt  if  I  could  have  argued  in 
extenuation  my  lack  of  advantages  for  study,  such 
an  excuse  being  itself  the  damning  circumstance. 
Of  course  eccentricity  is  permitted,  but  (as  in  the 
Arts)  only  to  the  established.  And  I  recall  a  pain- 
ful change  of  colour  which  befell  the  countenance 
of  a  shining  young  man  I  met  at  Ward's  house  in 
Paris:  he  had  used  his  handkerchief  and  was  ab- 


146  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

sently  putting  it  in  his  pocket  when  he  provider 
tially  noticed  what  he  was  doing  arid  restored  it 
to  his  sleeve. 

Miss  Elizabeth  had  the  courage  to  take  me  under 
her  wing,  placing  me  upon  her  left  at  dinner;  but 
sprightlier  calls  than  mine  demanded  and  occupied 
her  attention.  At  my  other  side  sat  a  magnificently 
upholstered  lady,  who  offered  a  fine  shoulder  and 
the  rear  wall  of  a  collar  of  pearls  for  my  observa- 
tion throughout  the  evening,  as  she  leaned  forward 
talking  eagerly  with  a  male  personage  across  the 
table.  This  was  a  prince,  ending  in  "ski":  he 
permitted  himself  the  slight  vagary  of  wearing  a 
gold  bracelet,  and  perhaps  this  flavour  of  romance 
drew  the  lady.  Had  my  good  fortune  ever  granted 
a  second  meeting,  I  should  not  have  known  her. 

Fragments  reaching  me  in  my  seclusion  indicated 
that  the  various  conversations  up  and  down  the 
long  table  were  animated;  and  at  times  some  topic 
proved  of  such  high  interest  as  to  engage  the  com- 
ment of  the  whole  company.  This  was  the  case 
when  the  age  of  one  of  the  English  king's  grand- 
children came  in  question,  but  a  subject  which 
called  for  even  longer  (if  less  spirited)  discourse 
concerned  the  shameful  lack  of  standard  on  the 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN  147 

part  of  citizens  of  the  United  States,  or,  as  it  was 
put,  with  no  little  exasperation,  "What  is  the 
trouble  with  America?"  Hereupon  brightly  gleamed 
the  fat  young  man  whom  I  had  marked  for  a  wit 
at  Les  Trois  Pigeons;  he  pictured  with  inimitable 
mimicry  a  western  senator  lately  in  France.  This 
outcast,  it  appeared;  had  worn  a  slouch  hat  at  a 
garden  party  and  had  otherwise  betrayed  his  coun- 
try to  the  ridicule  of  the  intelligent.  "But  really," 
said  the  fat  young  man,  turning  plaintiff  in  con- 
clusion, "imagine  what  such  things  make  the  English 
and  the  French  think  of  us!"  And  it  finally  went 
by  consent  that  the  trouble  with  America  was  the 
vulgarity  of  our  tourists. 

"A  dreadful  lot!"  Miss  Elizabeth  cheerfully 
summed  up  for  them  all.  "The  miseries  I  undergo 
with  that  class  of  'prominent  Amurricans'  who 
bring  letters  to  my  brother!  I  remember  one  awful 
creature  who  said,  when  I  came  into  the  room, 
'Well,  ma'am,  I  guess  you're  the  lady  of  the  house, 
aren't  you?' ' 

Miss  Elizabeth  sparkled  through  the  chorus  of 
laughter,  but  I  remembered  the  "awful  creature," 
*  genial  and  wise  old  man  of  affairs,  whose  daughter's 
portrait  George  painted.  Miss  Elizabeth  had  missed 


148  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

his  point:  the  canvasser's  phrase  had  been  intended 
with  humour,  and  even  had  it  lacked  that,  it  was 
not  without  a  pretty  quaintness.  So  I  thought, 
being  "left  to  my  own  reflections,"  which  may  have 
partaken  of  my  own  special  kind  of  snobbery;  at 
least  I  regretted  the  Elizabeth  of  the  morning 
garden  and  the  early  walk  along  Uie  fringe  of  the 
woods.  For  she  at  my  side  to-night  was  another 
lady. 

The  banquet  was  drawing  to  a  close  when  she 
leaned  toward  me  and  spoke  in  an  undertone. 
As  this  was  the  first  sign,  in  so  protracted  a  period, 
that  I  might  ever  again  establish  relations  with 
the  world  of  men,  it  came  upon  me  like  a  Friday's 
footprint,  and  in  the  moment  of  shock  I  did  not 
catch  what  she  said. 

"Anne  Elliott,  yonder,  is  asking  you  a  question," 
she  repeated,  nodding  at  a  very  pretty  girl  down 
and  across  the  table  from  me.  Miss  Anne  Elliott's 
attractive  voice  had  previously  enabled  me  to  recog- 
nise her  as  the  young  woman  who  had  threatened 
to  serenade  Les  Trois  Pigeons. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  said,  addressing  her,  and 
at  the  sound  my  obscurity  was  illuminated,  about 
half  of  the  company  turning  to  look  at  me  with 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN  149 

vide-eyed  surprise.  (I  spoke  in  an  ordinary  tone, 
t  may  need  to  be  explained,  and  there  is  nothing 
'einarkable  about  my  voice). 

"I  hear  you're  at  Les  Trois  Pigeons,"  said  Miss 
Elliott. 

"Yes?" 

"Would  you  .  lind  telling  us  something  of  the 
nysterious  Narcissus?" 

"If  you'll  be  more  definite,"  I  returned,  in  the 
;one  of  a  question. 

"There  couldn't  be  more  than  one  like  that" 
aid  Miss  Elliott,  "at  least,  not  in  one  neighbour- 
tood,  could  there?  I  mean  a  recklessly  charming 
rision  with  a  white  tie  and  white  hair  and  white 
annels." 

"Oh,"  said  I,  "he's  not  mysterious." 

"But  he  is"  she  returned;  "I  insist  on  his  being 
lysterious!  Rarely,  grandly,  strangely  mysterious! 
Tou  will  let  me  think  so?"  This  young  lady  had  a 

himsical  manner  of  emphasising  words  unexpect- 
dly,  with  a  breathless  intensity  that  approached 
iolence,  a  habit  dangerously  contagious  among 
ervous  persons,  so  that  I  answered  slowly,  out  of 

fear  that  I  might  echo  it. 

"It    would    need    a    great    deal    of    imagination. 


150  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

He's    a    young    American,    very    attractive,    very 

simple— 

"But  he's  mad!"  she  interrupted. 

"Oh,  no!"  I  said  hastily. 

"But  he  is!  A  person  told  me  so  in  a  garden 
this  very  afternoon,"  she  went  on  eagerly;  "a  person 
with  a  rake  and  ever  so  many  moles  on  his  chin. 
This  person  told  me  all  about  him.  His  name  is 
Oliver  Saffren,  and  he's  in  the  charge  of  a  very 
large  doctor  and  quite,  quite  mad!" 

"Jean  Ferret,  the  gardener,"  I  said  deliberately, 
and  with  venom,  "is  fast  acquiring  notoriety  in 
these  parts  as  an  idiot  of  purest  ray,  and  he  had 
his  information  from  another  whose  continuance 
unhanged  is  every  hour  more  miraculous." 

"How  ruthless  of  you,"  cried  Miss  Elliott,  with 
exaggerated  reproach,  "when  I  have  had  such 
a  thrilling  happiness  all  day  in  believing  that  riot- 
ously beautiful  creature  mad!  You  are  wholly 
positive  he  isn't?" 

Our  dialogue  was  now  all  that  delayed  a  general 
departure  from  the  table.  This,  combined  with 
the  naive  surprise  I  have  mentioned,  served  to  make 
us  temporarily  the  centre  of  attention,  and,  among 
the  faces  turned  toward  me,  my  glance  fell  unexpect- 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN  151 

edly  upon  one  I  had  not  seen  since  entering  the  din- 
ing-room. Mrs.  Harman  had  been  placed  at  some 
distance  from  me  and  on  the  same  side  of  the  table, 
but  now  she  leaned  far  back  in  her  chair  to  look 
at  me,  so  that  I  saw  her  behind  the  shoulders  of 
the  people  between  us.  She  was  watching  me  with 
an  expression  unmistakably  of  repressed  anxiety  and 
excitement,  and  as  our  eyes  met,  hers  shone  with 
a  certain  agitation,  as  of  some  odd  consciousness 
shared  with  me.  It  was  so  strangely,  suddenly  a  re- 
minder of  the  look  of  secret  understanding  given  me 
with  good  night,  twenty-four  hours  earlier,  by  the  man 
whose  sanity  was  Miss  Elliott's  topic,  that;  puzzled 
and  almost  disconcerted  for  the  moment,  I  did  not 
at  once  reply  to  the  lively  young  lady's  question. 

"You're  hesitating!"  she  cried,  clasping  her 
hands.  "I  believe  there's  a  darling  little  chance  of 
it,  after  all!  And  if  it  weren't  so,  why  would  he 
need  to  be  watched  over,  day  and  night,  by  an 
enormous  doctor?" 

"This  is  romance!"  I  retorted.  "The  doctor  is 
Professor  Keredec,  illustriously  known  in  this  coun- 
try, but  not  as  a  physician,  and  they  are  follow- 
ing some  form  of  scientific  research  together,  I 
believe.  But,  assuming  to  speak  as  Mr.  Saffren's 


152  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

friend,"  I  added,  rising  with  the  others  upon  Miss 
Ward's  example,  "I'm  sure  if  he  could  come  to 
know  of  your  interest,  he  would  much  rather  play 
Hamlet  for  you  than  let  you  find  him  disappointing." 

"If  he  could  come  to  know  of  my  interest!" 
she  echoed,  glancing  down  at  herself  with  mock 
demureness.  "Don't  you  think  he  could  come 
to  know  something  more  of  me  than  that?" 

The  windows  had  been  thrown  open,  allow- 
ing passage  to  a  veranda.  Miss  Elizabeth  led  the 
way  outdoors  with  the  prince,  the  rest  of  us  fol- 
lowing at  hazard,  and  in  the  mild  confusion  of 
this  withdrawal  I  caught  a  final  glimpse  of  Mrs. 
Harman,  which  revealed  that  she  was  still  looking 
at  me  with  the  same  tensity;  but  with  the  move- 
ment of  intervening  groups  I  lost  her.  Miss  Elliott 
pointedly  waited  for  me  until  I  came  round  the 
table,  attached  me  definitely  by  taking  my  arm, 
accompanying  her  action  with  a  dazzling  smile. 
"Oh,  do  you  think  you  can  manage  it?"  she  whis- 
pered rapturously,  to  which  I  replied — as  vaguely  as 
I  could — that  the  demands  of  scientific  research  upon 
the  time  of  its  followers  were  apt  to  be  exorbitant. 

Tables  and  coffee  were  waiting  on  the  broad  ter- 
race below,  with  a  big  moon  rising  in  the  sky.  I 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN  153 

descended  the  steps  in  charge  of  this  pretty  cavalier, 
allowed  her  to  seat  me  at  the  most  remote  of  the 
tables,  and  accepted  without  unwillingness  other 
gallantries  of  hers  in  the  matter  of  coffee  and  cigar- 
ettes. "And  now,"  she  said,  "now  that  I've  done 
so  much  for  your  dearest  hopes  and  comfort,  look 
up  at  the  milky  moon,  and  tell  me  all!99 

"If  you  can  bear  it?" 

She  leaned  an  elbow  on  the  marble  railing  that 
protected  the  terrace,  and,  shielding  her  eyes  from 
the  moonlight  with  her  hand,  affected  to  gaze  at 
me  dramatically.  "Have  no  distrust,"  she  bade 
me.  "Who  and  what  is  the  glorious  stranger?" 

Resisting  an  impulse  to  chime  in  with  her  humour, 
I  gave  her  so  dry  and  commonplace  an  account  of 
my  young  friend  at  the  inn  that  I  presently  found 
myself  abandoned  to  solitude  again. 

"I  don't  know  where  to  go,"  she  complained  as 
she  rose.  "These  other  people  are  most  painful  to 
a  girl  of  my  intelligence,  but  I  cannot  linger  by 
your  side;  untruth  long  ago  lost  its  interest  for  me, 
and  I  prefer  to  believe  Mr.  Jean  Ferret — if  that 
is  the  gentleman's  name.  I'd  join  Miss  Ward  and 
Cressie  Ingle  yonder,  but  Cressie  would  be  indignant! 
I  shall  soothe  my  hurt  with  sweetest  airs.  Adieu."  ,! 


154  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

With  that  she  made  me  a  solemn  courtesy  and 
departed,  a  pretty  little  figure,  not  little  in  attract- 
iveness, the  strong  moonlight,  tinged  with  blue, 
shimmering  over  her  blond  hair  and  splashing 
brightly  among  the  ripples  of  her  silks  and  laces. 
She  swept  across  the  terrace  languidly,  offering  an 
effect  of  comedy  not  unfairylike,  and,  ascending 
the  steps  of  the  veranda,  disappeared  inta  the 
orange  candle-light  of  a  salon.  A  moment  later 
some  chords  were  sounded  firmly  upon  a  piano  in 
that  room,  and  a  bitter  song  swam  out  to  me  over 
the  laughter  and  talk  of  the  people  at  the  other 
tables.  It  was  to  be  observed  that  Miss  Anne 
Elliott  sang  very  well,  though  I  thought  she  over- 
emphasised one  line  of  the  stanza: 

"This  world  is  a  world  of  lies!" 

Perhaps  she  had  poisoned  another  little  arrow 
for  me,  too.  Impelled  by  the  fine  night,  the  groups 
upon  the  terrace  were  tending  toward  a  wider 
dispersal,  drifting  over  the  sloping  lawns  by  threes 
and  couples,  and  I  was  able  to  identify  two  figures 
threading  the  paths  of  the  garden,  together,  some 
distance  below.  Judging  by  the  pace  they  kept, 
I  should  have  concluded  that  Miss  Ward  and 
Mr.  Cresson  Ingle  sought  the  healthful  effects  of 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN  155 

exercise.  However,  I  could  see  no  good  reason 
for  wishing  their  conversation  less  obviously  ab- 
sorbing, though  Miss  Elliott's  insinuation  that  Mr. 
Ingle  might  deplore  intrusion  upon  the  interview 
had  struck  me  as  too  definite  to  be  altogether 
pleasing.  Still,  such  matters  could  not  discontent 
me  with  my  solitude.  Eastward,  over  the  moon- 
lit roof  of  the  forest,  I  could  see  the  quiet  ocean, 
its  unending  lines  of  foam  moving  slowly  to  the 
long  beaches,  too  far  away  to  be  heard.  The  re- 
proachful voice  of  the  singer  came  no  more  from 
the  house,  but  the  piano  ran  on  into  "La  Vie 
de  Boheme,"  and  out  of  that  into  something  else, 
I  did  not  know  what,  but  it  seemed  to  be  music; 
at  least  it  was  musical  enough  to  bring  before  me 
some  memory  of  the  faces  of  pretty  girls  I  had 
danced  with  long  ago  in  my  dancing  days,  so  that, 
what  with  the  music,  and  the  distant  sea,  and  the 
soft  air,  so  sparklingly  full  of  moonshine,  and  the 
little  dancing  memories,  I  was  floated  off  into  a 
reverie  that  was  like  a  prelude  for  the  person  who 
broke  it.  She  came  so  quietly  that  I  did  not  hear 
her  until  she  was  almost  beside  me  and  spoke  to  me. 
It  was  the  second  time  that  had  happened. 


CHAPTER  XH 

MRS.  HARMAN,"  I  said,  as  she  took  tne 
chair  vacated  by  the  elfin  young  lady, 
"you  see  I  can  manage  it!    But  perhaps 
I  control  myself  better  when  there's  no  camp-stool 
to  inspire  me.    You  remember  my  woodland  didoes 
-I  fear?" 

She  smiled  in  a  pleasant,  comprehending  way, 
but  neither  directly  replied  nor  made  any  return 
speech  whatever;  instead,  she  let  her  forearms  rest 
on  the  broad  railing  of  the  marble  balustrade,  and, 
leaning  forward,  gazed  out  over  the  shining  and 
mysterious  slopes  below.  Somehow  it  seemed  to 
me  that  her  not  answering,  and  her  quiet  action, 
as  well  as  the  thoughtful  attitude  in  which  it  cul- 
minated, would  have  been  thought  "very  like  her" 
by  any  one  who  knew  her  well.  "Cousin  Louise 
has  her  ways,"  Miss  Elizabeth  had  told  me;  this 
was  probably  one  of  them,  and  I  found  it  singularly 
attractive.  For  that  matter,  from  the  day  of  my 
first  sight  of  her  in  the  woods  I  had  needed  no 

prophet  to  tell  me  I  should  like  Mrs.  Harman's  ways. 

156 


CHAPTER  TWELVE  157 

"After  the  quiet  you  have  had  here,  all  this  must 
seem,"  I  said,  looking  down  upon  the  strollers,  "a 
usurpation." 

"Oh,  they!"  She  disposed  of  Quesnay's  guests 
with  a  slight  movement  of  her  left  hand.  "You're 
an  old  friend  of  my  cousins — of  both  of  them; 
but  even  without  that,  I  know  you  understand. 
Elizabeth  does  it  all  for  her  brother,  of  course." 

"But  she  likes  it,"  I  said. 

"And  Mr.  Ward  likes  it,  too,"  she  added  slowly. 
"You'll  see,  when  he  comes  home." 

Night's  effect  upon  me  being  always  to  make  me 
venturesome,  I  took  a  chance,  and  ventured  per- 
haps too  far.  "I  hope  we'll  see  many  happy  things 
when  he  comes  home." 

"It's  her  doing  things  of  this  sort,"  she  said, 
giving  no  sign  of  having  heard  my  remark,  "that 
has  helped  so  much  to  make  him  the  success  that 
he  is." 

"It's  what  has  been  death  to  his  art!"  I  ex- 
claimed, too  quickly — and  would  have  been  glad 
to  recall  the  speech. 

She  met  it  with  a  murmur  of  low  laughter  that 
sounded  pitying.  "Wasn't  it  always  a  dubious  rela- 
tion— between  him  and  art?"  And  without  await- 


158  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

ing  an  answer,  she  went  on,  "So  it's  all  the  better 
that  he  can  have  his  success!" 

To  this  I  had  nothing  whatever  to  say.  So  far 
as  I  remembered,  I  had  never  before  heard  a  woman 
put  so  much  comprehension  of  a  large  subject  into 
so  few  words,  but  in  my  capacity  as  George's  friend, 
hopeful  for  his  happiness,  it  made  me  a  little  uneasy. 
During  the  ensuing  pause  this  feeling,  at  first 
uppermost,  gave  way  to  another  not  at  all  in  se- 
quence, but  irresponsible  and  intuitive,  that  she 
had  something  in  particular  to  say  to  me,  had  joined 
me  for  that  purpose,  and  was  awaiting  the  oppor- 
tunity. As  I  have  made  open  confession,  my 
curiosity  never  needed  the  spur;  and  there  is  no 
denying  that  this  impression  set  it  off  on  the  gallop; 
but  evidently  the  moment  had  not  come  for  her 
to  speak.  She  seemed  content  to  gaze  out  over 
the  valley  in  silence. 

"Mr.  Cresson  Ingle,"  I  hazarded;  "is  he  an  old, 
new  friend  of  your  cousins?  I  think  he  was  not 
above  the  horizon  when  I  went  to  Capri,  two 
years  ago?" 

"He  wants  Elizabeth,"  she  returned,  adding 
quietly,  "as  you've  seen."  And  when  I  had  verified 
this  assumption  with  a  monosyllable,  she  continued, 


CHAPTER  TWELVE  159 

"He's  an  'available,'  but  I  should  hate  to  have  it 
happen.  He's  hard." 

"He  doesn't  seem  very  hard  toward  her,"  I 
murmured,  looking  down  into  the  garden  where  Mr. 
Ingle  just  then  happened  to  be  adjusting  a  scarf 
about  his  hostess's  shoulders. 

"He's  led  a  detestable  life,"  said  Mrs.  Harman, 
"among  detestable  people!" 

She  spoke  with  sudden,  remarkable  vigour,  and 
as  if  she  knew.  The  full-throated  emphasis  she 
put  upon  "detestable"  gave  the  word  the  sting  of 
a  flagellation;  it  rang  with  a  rightful  indignation 
that  brought  vividly  to  my  mind  the  thought  of 
those  three  years  in  Mrs.  Harman's  life  which 
Elizabeth  said  "hurt  one  to  think  of."  For  this 
was  the  lady  who  had  rejected  good  George 
Ward  to  run  away  with  a  man  much  deeper  in  all 
that  was  detestable  than  Mr.  Cresson  Ingle  could 
ever  be! 

"He  seems  to  me  much  of  a  type  with  these 
others,"  I  said, 

"Oh,  they  keep  their  surfaces  about  the  same." 

"It  made  me  wish  /  had  a  little  more  surface 
to-night,"  I  laughed.  "I'd  have  fitted  better.  Miss 
Ward  is  different  at  different  times.  When  we 


160  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

are  alone  together  she  always  has  the  air  of  ex- 
cusing, or  at  least  explaining,  these  people  to  me, 
but  this  evening  I've  had  the  disquieting  thought 
that  perhaps  she  also  explained  me  to  them." 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Mrs.  Harman,  turning  to  me 
quickly.  "Didn't  you  see?  She  was  making  up 
to  Mr.  Ingle  for  this  morning.  It  came  out  that 
she'd  ridden  over  at  daylight  to  see  you;  Anne 
Elliott  discovered  it  in  some  way  and  told  him." 

This  presented  an  aspect  of  things  so  overwhelm- 
ingly  novel  that  out  of  a  confusion  of  ideas  I  was 
able  to  fasten  on  only  one  with  which  to  continue 
the  conversation,  and  I  said  irrelevantly  that  Miss 
Elliott  was  a  remarkable  young  woman.  At  this 
my  companion,  who  had  renewed  her  observation 
of  the  valley,  gave  me  a  full,  clear  look  of  earnest 
scrutiny,  which  set  me  on  the  alert,  for  I  thought 
that  now  what  she  desired  to  say  was  coming.  But 
I  was  disappointed,  for  she  spoke  lightly,  with  a 
ripple  of  amusement. 

"I  suppose  she  finished  her  investigations?  You 
told  her  all  you  could ?" 

"Almost." 

"I  suppose  you  wouldn't  trust  me  with  the  reserva- 
tion?" she  asked,  smiling. 


CHAPTER  TWELVE  161 

"I  would  trust  you  with  anything,"  I  answered 
seriously. 

"You  didn't  gratify  that  child?"  she  said,  half 
laughing.  Then,  to  my  surprise,  her  tone  changed 
suddenly,  and  she  began  again  in  a  hurried  low  voice: 
"You  didn't  tell  her — "  and  stopped  there,  breathless 
and  troubled,  letting  me  see  that  I  had  been  right 
after  all:  this  was  what  she  wanted  to  talk  about. 

"I  didn't  tell  her  that  young  Saffren  is  mad,  no; 
if  that  is  what  you  mean." 

"I'm  glad  you  didn't,"  she  said  slowly,  sinking  back 
in  her  chair  so  that  her  face  was  in  the  shadow  of  the 
awning  which  sheltered  the  little  table  between  us. 

"In  the  first  place,  I  wouldn't  have  told  her  even 
if  it  were  true,"  I  returned,  "and  in  the  second,  it 
isn't  true — though  you  have  some  reason  to  think 
it  is,"  I  added. 

"7?"  she  said.    "Why?" 

"His  speaking  to  you  as  he  did;  a  thing  on  the 
face  of  it  inexcusable " 

"Why  did  he  call  me  'Madame  d'Armand'?"  she 
interposed. 

I  explained  something  of  the  mental  processes  of 
Amedee,  and  she  listened  till  I  had  finished;  then 
bade  me  continue. 


163  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

f 

"That's  all,"  I  said  blankly,  but,  with  a  second 
thought,  caught  her  meaning.  "Oh,  about  young 
Saffren,  you  mean?" 

"Yes." 

"I  know  him  pretty  well,"  I  said,  "without  really 
knowing  anything  about  him;  but  what  is  stranger, 
I  believe  he  doesn't  really  know  a  great  deal  about 
himself.  Of  course  I  have  a  theory  about  him, 
though  it's  vague.  My  idea  is  that  probably  through 
some  great  illness  he  lost — not  his  faculty  of  memory, 
but  his  memories,  or,  at  least,  most  of  them.  In 
regard  to  what  he  does  remember,  Professor  Keredec 
has  anxiously  impressed  upon  him  some  very  poig- 
nant necessity  for  reticence.  What  the  necessity 
may  be,  or  the  nature  of  the  professor's  anxieties, 
I  do  not  know,  but  I  think  Keredec's  reasons  must 
be  good  ones.  That's  all,  except  that  there's  some- 
thing about  the  young  man  that  draws  one  to  him: 
I  couldn't  tell  you  how  much  I  like  him,  nor  how 
sorry  I  am  that  he  offended  you." 

"He  didn't  offend  me,"  she  murmured — almost 
whispered. 

"He  didn't  mean  to,"  I  said  warmly.  "You 
understood  that?" 

"Yes,  I  understood." 


CHAPTER  TWELVE  163 

am  glad.  I'd  been  waiting  the  chance  to  try 
Aplain — to  ask  you  to  pardon  him 

"But  there  wasn't  any  need." 

"You  mean  because  you  understood " 

"No/'  she  interrupted  gently,  "not  only  that. 
I  mean  because  he  has  done  it  himself." 

"Asked  your  pardon?"  I  said,  in  complete 
surprise. 

"Yes." 

"He's  written  you?"  I  cried. 

"No.  I  saw  him  to-day,"  she  answered.  'This 
afternoon  when  I  went  for  my  walk,  he  was  waiting 
where  the  the  paths  intersect " 

Some  hasty  ejaculation,  I  do  not  know  what, 
came  from  me,  but  she  lifted  her  hand. 

"Wait,"  she  said  quietly.  "As  soon  as  he  saw 
me  he  came  straight  toward  me— 

"Oh,  but  this  won't  do  at  all,"  I  broke  out.  "It's 
too  bad " 

"Wait."  She  leaned  forward  slightly,  lifting 
her  hand  again.  "He  called  me  'Madame  d'Ar- 
mand,'  and  said  he  must  know  if  he  had  offended 


me." 


'You  told  him 


told  him  'No!'  "    And  it  seemed  to  me  that 


164  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

her  voice,  which  up  to  this  point  had  been  low  but 
very  steady,  shook  upon  the  monosyllable.  "He 
walked  with  me  a  little  way — perhaps  it  was 
longer " 

"Trust  me  that  it  sha'n't  happen  again!"  I 
exclaimed.  "I'll  see  that  Keredec  knows  of  this  at 
once.  He  will " 

"No,  no,"  she  interrupted  quickly,  "that  is 
just  what  I  want  you  not  to  do.  Will  you  promise 
me?" 

"I'll  promise  anything  you  ask  me.  But  didn't 
he  frighten  you?  Didn't  he  talk  wildly?  Didn't 
he " 

"He  didn't  frighten  me — not  as  you  mean.  He 
was  very  quiet  and—  She  broke  off  unexpectedly, 
with  a  little  pitying  cry,  and  turned  to  me,  lifting 
both  hands  appealingly — "And  oh,  doesn't  he  make 
one  sorry  for  him!" 

That  was  just  it.  She  had  gone  straight  to  the 
heart  of  his  mystery:  his  strangeness  was  the  strange 
pathos  that  invested  him;  the  "singularity"  of 
"that  other  monsieur"  was  solved  for  me  at 
last. 

When  she  had  spoken  she  rose,  advanced  a  step, 
and  stood  looking  out  over  the  valley  again,  her 


CHAPTER  TWELVE  105 

skirts  pressing  the  balustrade.  One  of  the  moments 
in  my  life  when  I  have  wished  to  be  a  figure  painter 
came  then,  as  she  raised  her  arms,  the  sleeves,  of 
some  filmy  texture,  falling  back  from  them  with 
the  gesture,  and  clasped  her  hands  lightly  behind 
her  neck,  the  graceful  angle  of  her  chin  uplifted  to 
the  full  rain  of  moonshine.  Little  Miss  Elliott,  in 
the  glamour  of  these  same  blue  showerings,  had 
borrowed  gauzy  weavings  of  the  fay  and  the  sprite, 
but  Mrs.  Harman — tall,  straight,  delicate  to  fragility, 
yet  not  to  thinness — was  transfigured  with  a  deeper 
meaning,  wearing  the  sadder,  richer  colours  of  the 
tragedy  that  her  cruel  young  romance  had  put  upon 
her.  She  might  have  posed  as  she  stood  against 
the  marble  railing — and  especially  in  that  gesture 
of  lifting  her  arms — for  a  bearer  of  the  gift  at  some 
foredestined  luckless  ceremony  of  votive  offerings. 
So  it  seemed,  at  least,  to  the  eyes  of  a  moon-dazed 
old  painter-man. 

She  stood  in  profile  to  me;  there  were  some  jas- 
mine flowers  at  her  breast;  I  could  see  them  rise 
and  fall  with  more  than  deep  breathing;  and  I 
wondered  what  the  man  who  had  talked  of  her  so 
wildly,  only  yesterday,  would  feel  if  he  could  know 
that  already  the  thought  of  him  had  moved  her. 


106  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

"I  haven't  had  my  life.  It's  gone!"  It  was 
almost  as  if  I  heard  his  voice,  close  at  hand,  with 
all  the  passion  of  regret  and  protest  that  rang  in 
the  words  when  they  broke  from  him  in  the  forest. 
And  by  some  miraculous  conjecture,  within  the 
moment  I  seemed  not  only  to  hear  his  voice  but 
actually  to  see  him,  a  figure  dressed  in  white,  far 
below  us  and  small  with  the  distance,  standing 
out  in  the  moonlight  in  the  middle  of  the  tree- 
bordered  avenue  leading  to  the  chateau  gates. 

I  rose  and  leaned  over  the  railing.  There  was  no 
doubt  about  the  reality  of  the  figure  in  white,  though 
it  was  too  far  away  to  be  identified  with  certainty; 
and  as  I  rubbed  my  eyes  for  clearer  sight,  it  turned 
and  disappeared  into  the  shadows  of  the  orderly 
grove  where  I  had  stood,  one  day,  to  watch  Louise 
Harman  ascend  the  slopes  of  Quesnay. 

But  I  told  myself,  sensibly,  that  more  than 
one  man  on  the  coast  of  Normandy  might  be 
wearing  white  flannels  that  evening,  and,  turning 
to  my  companion,  found  that  she  had  moved 
some  steps  away  from  me  and  was  gazing  east- 
ward to  the  sea.  I  concluded  that  she  had  not  seen 
the  figure. 

"I  have  a  request  to  make  of  you/'  she  said,  as 


CHAPTER  TWELVE  167 

I  turned.  "Will  you  do  it  for  me — setting  it  down 
just  as  a  whim,  if  you  like,  and  letting  it  go  at 
that?" 

"Yes,  I  will,"  I  answered  promptly.  "I'll  do  any- 
thing you  ask." 

She  stepped  closer,  looked  at  me  intently  for  a 
second,  bit  her  lip  in  indecision,  then  said,  all  in  a 
breath : 

"Don't  tell  Mr.  Saffren  my  name!" 

"But  I  hadn't  meant  to,"  I  protested. 

"Don't  speak  of  me  to  him  at  all,"  she  said,  with 
the  same  hurried  eagerness.  "Will  you  let  me  have 
my  way?" 

"Could  there  be  any  question  of  that?"  I  replied, 
and  to  my  astonishment  found  that  we  had  some- 
how impulsively  taken  each  other's  hands,  as  upon 
a  serious  bargain  struck  between  us. 


CHAPTER  XIH 


llHE  round  moon  was  white  and  at  its  smallest, 
high  overhead,  when  I  stepped  out  of  the 

•^*  phaeton  in  which  Miss  Elizabeth  sent  me 
back  to  Madame  Brossard's;  midnight  was  twanging 
from  a  rusty  old  clock  indoors  as  I  crossed  the 
fragrant  courtyard  to  my  pavilion;  but  a  lamp  still 
burned  in  the  salon  of  the  "Grande  Suite,"  a  light 
to  my  mind  more  suggestive  of  the  patient  watcher 
than  of  the  scholar  at  his  tome. 

When  my  own  lamp  was  extinguished,  I  set  my 
door  ajar,  moved  my  bed  out  from  the  wall  to  catch 
whatever  breeze  might  stir,  "composed  myself  for 
the  night,"  as  it  used  to  be  written,  and  lay  looking 
out  upon  the  quiet  garden  where  a  thin  white  . 
was  rising.    If,  in  taking  this  coign  of  vantage,  I 
any  subtler  purpose  than  to  seek  a  draught  ag* 
the  warmth  of  the  night,  it  did  not  fail  of  its  re\^ 
for  just  as  I  had  begun  to  drowse,  the  gallery  s 
creaked  as  if  beneath  some  immoderate  weight, 

the  noble  form  of  Keredec  emerged  upon  my  fie 

168 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN  169 

vision.  From  the  absence  of  the  sound  of  footsteps 
I  supposed  him  to  be  either  barefooted  or  in  his 
stockings.  His  visible  costume  consisted  of  a  sleep- 
ing jacket  tucked  into  a  pair  of  trousers,  while  his 
tousled  hair  and  beard  and  generally  tossed  and 
rumpled  look  were  those  of  a  man  who  had  been 
lying  down  temporarily. 

I  heard  him  sigh — like  one  sighing  for  sleep — as 
he  went  noiselessly  across  the  garden  and  out  through 
the  archway  to  the  road.  At  that  I  sat  straight  up 
in  bed  to  stare — and  well  I  might,  for  here  was  a 
miracle!  He  had  lifted  his  arms  above  his  head  to 
stretch  himself  comfortably,  and  he  walked  upright 
and  at  ease,  whereas  when  I  had  last  seen  him,  the 
night  before,  he  had  been  able  to  do  little  more  than 
crawl,  bent  far  over  and  leaning  painfully  upon  his 
friend.  Never  man  beheld  a  more  astonishing 
recovery  from  a  bad  case  of  rheumatism! 

After  a  long  look  down  the  road,  he  retraced  his 
steps;  and  the  moonlight,  striking  across  his  great 
forehead  as  he  came,  revealed  the  furrows  ploughed 
there  by  an  anxiety  of  which  I  guessed  the  cause. 
The  creaking  of  the  wooden  stairs  and  gallery  and 
the  whine  of  an  old  door  announced  that  he  had 
returned  to  his  vigil. 


170  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

I  had,  perhaps,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  consider 
this  performance,  when  it  was  repeated;  now,  how- 
ever, he  only  glanced  out  into  the  road,  retreating 
hastily,  and  I  saw  that  he  was  smiling,  while  the 
speed  he  maintained  in  returning  to  his  quarters  was 
remarkable  for  one  so  newly  convalescent. 

The  next  moment  Saffren  came  through  the  arch- 
way, ascended  the  steps  in  turn — but  slowly  and 
carefully,  as  if  fearful  of  waking  his  guardian — and 
I  heard  his  door  closing,  very  gently.  Long  before 
his  arrival,  however,  I  had  been  certain  of  his  identity 
with  the  figure  I  had  seen  gazing  up  at  the  terraces 
of  Quesnay  from  the  borders  of  the  grove.  Other 
questions  remained  to  bother  me :  Why  had  Keredec 
not  prevented  this  night-roving,  and  why,  since  he 
did  permit  it,  should  he  conceal  his  knowledge  of  it 
rom  Oliver?  And  what,  oh,  what  wondrous  specific 
had  the  mighty  man  found  for  his  disease? 

Morning  failed  to  clarify  these  mysteries;  it 
brought,  however,  something  rare  and  rich  and 
strange.  I  allude  to  the  manner  of  Amedee's  ap- 
proach. The  aged  gossip-demoniac  had  to  recognise 
the  fact  that  he  could  not  keep  out  of  my  way  for 
ever;  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  put  as  good 
a  face  as  possible  upon  a  bad  business,  and  get  it 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN  171 

over — and  the  face  lie  selected  was  a  marvel;  not 
less,  and  in  no  ha'sty  sense  of  the  word. 

It  appeared  at  my  door  to  announce  that  break- 
fast waited  outside. 

Primarily  it  displayed  an  expression  of  serenity, 
masterly  in  its  assumption  that  not  the  least,  remot- 
est, dreamiest  shadow  of  danger  could  possibly  be 
conceived,  by  the  most  immoderately  pessimistic  and 
sinister  imagination,  as  even  vaguely  threatening. 
And  for  the  rest,  you  have  seen  a  happy  young 
mother  teaching  first  steps  to  the  first-born — that 
was  Amedee.  Radiantly  tender,  aggressively  solici- 
tous, diffusing  ineffable  sweetness  on  the  air,  wreathed 
in  seraphic  smiles,  beaming  caressingly,  and  aglow 
with  a  sacred  joy  that  I  should  be  looking  so  well,  he 
greeted  me  in  a  voice  of  honey  and  bowed  me  to  my 
repast  with  an  unconcealed  fondness  at  once  maternal 
and  reverential. 

I  did  not  attempt  to  speak.  I  came  out  silently, 
uncannily  fascinated,  my  eyes  fixed  upon  him,  while 
he  moved  gently  backward,  cooing  pleasant  words 
about  the  coffee,  but  just  perceptibly  keeping  him- 
self out  of  arm's  reach  until  I  had  taken  my  seat. 
When  I  had  done  that,  he  leaned  over  the  table  and 
began  to  set  useless  things  nearer  my  plate  with 


172  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

frankly  affectionate  care.  It  chanced  that  in  "making 
a  long  arm"  to  reach  something  I  did  want,  my  hand 
(of  which  the  fingers  happened  to  be  closed)  passed 
rather  impatiently  beneath  his  nose.  The  madonna 
expression  changed  instantly  to  one  of  horror,  he 
uttered  a  startled  croak,  and  took  a  surprisingly  long 
skip  backward,  landing  in  the  screen  of  honeysuckle 
vines,  which,  he  seemed  to  imagine,  were  some  new 
form  of  hostility  attacking  him  treacherously  from 
the  rear.  They  sagged,  but  did  not  break  from  their 
fastenings,  and  his  behaviour,  as  he  lay  thus  en- 
tangled, would  have  contrasted  unfavourably  in 
dignity  with  the  actions  of  a  panicstricken  hen  in 
a  hammock. 

"And  so  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  us  all," 
I  said,  with  no  hope  of  being  understood. 

Recovering  some  measure  of  mental  equilibrium 
at  the  same  time  that  he  managed  to  find  his  feet, 
he  burst  into  shrill  laughter,  to  which  he  tried  in 
vain  to  impart  a  ring  of  debonair  carelessness. 

"Eh,  I  stumble!"  he  cried  with  hollow  merriment. 
"I  fall  about  and  faint  with  fatigue!  Pah!  But  it 
is  nothing;  truly!" 

"Fatigue!"  I  turned  a  bitter  sneer  upon  him. 
"Fatigue!  And  you  just  out  of  bedJ" 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN  173 

His  fat  hands  went  up  palm  outward;  his  heroic 
laughter  was  checked  as  with  a  sob;  an  expression 
of  tragic  incredulity  shone  from  his  eyes.  Patently 
he  doubted  the  evidence  of  his  own  ears;  could  not 
believe  that  such  black  ingratitude  existed  in  the 
world.  "Absalom,  O  my  son  Absalom!"  was  his 
unuttered  cry.  His  hands  fell  to  his  sides;  his  chin 
sank  wretchedly  into  its  own  folds;  his  shirt-boson* 
heaved  and  crinkled;  arrows  of  unspeakable  injustice 
had  entered  the  defenceless  breast. 

"Just  out  of  bed!"  he  repeated,  with  a  pathos 
that  would  have  brought  the  judge  of  any  court 
in  France  down  from  the  bench  to  kiss  him — "And 
I  had  risen  long,  long  before  the  dawn,  in  the  cold 
and  darkness  of  the  night,  to  prepare  the  sandwiches 
of  monsieur!" 

It  was  too  much  for  me,  or  rather,  he  was.  I 
stalked  off  to  the  woods  in  a  state  of  helpless  indig- 
nation; mentally  swearing  that  his  day  of  punish- 
ment at  my  hands  was  only  deferred,  not  abandoned, 
yet  secretly  fearing  that  this  very  oath  might  live 
for  no  purpose  but  to  convict  me  of  perjury.  His 
talents  were  lost  in  the  country;  he  should  have 
sought  his  fortune  in  the  metropolis.  And  his 
manner,  as  he  summoned  me  that  evening  to 


174  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

dinner,  and  indeed  throughout  the  courses,  partook 
of  the  subtle  condescension  and  careless  assurance 
of  one  who  has  but  faintly  enjoyed  some  too  easy 
triumph. 

I  found  this  so  irksome  that  I  might  have  been 
goaded  into  an  outbreak  of  impotent  fury,  had  my 
attention  not  been  distracted  by  the  curious  turn  of 
the  professor's  malady,  which  had  renewed  its  pain- 
ful assault  upon  him.  He  came  hobbling  to  table, 
leaning  upon  Saffren's  shoulder,  and  made  no  re^- 
ence  to  his  singular  improvement  of  the  night 
before — nor  did  I.  His  rheumatism  was  his  own; 
he  might  do  what  he  pleased  with  it!  There  was 
no  reason  why  he  should  confide  the  cause  of  its 
vagaries  to  me. 

Table-talk  ran  its  normal  course;  a  great  Pole's 
philosophy  receiving  flagellation  at  the  hands  of 
our  incorrigible  optimist.  ("If  he  could  under- 
stand," exclaimed  Keredec,  "that  the  individual 
must  be  immortal  before  it  is  born,  ha!  then  this 
babbler  might  have  writted  some  intelligence!") 
On  the  surface  everything  was  as  usual  with  our 
trio,  with  nothing  to  show  any  turbulence  of  under- 
currents, unless  it  was  a  certain  alertness  in  Oliver's 
manner,  a  restrained  excitement,  and  the  question- 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN  175 

ing  restlessness  of  his  eyes  as  they  sought  mine  from 
time  to  time.  Whatever  he  wished  to  ask  me,  he 
was  given  no  opportunity,  for  the  professor  carried 
him  off  to  work  when  our  coffee  was  finished.  As 
they  departed,  the  young  man  glanced  back  at  me 
over  his  shoulder,  with  that  same  earnest  look  of 
interrogation,  but  it  went  unanswered  by  any 
token  or  gesture:  for  though  I  guessed  that  he 
wished  to  know  if  Mrs.  Harman  had  spoken  of 
him  to  me,  it  seemed  part  of  my  bargain  with  her 
to  give  him  no  sign  that  I  understood. 

A  note  lay  beside  my  plate  next  morning, 
addressed  in  a  writing  strange  to  me,  one  of 
dashing  and  vigorous  character. 

"In  the  pursuit  of  thrillingly  scientific  research," 
it  read,  "what  with  the  tumult  which  possessed 
me,  I  forgot  to  mention  the  bond  that  links  us; 
I,  too,  am  a  painter,  though  as  yet  unhonoured 
and  unhung.  It  must  be  only  because  I  lack  a 
gentle  hand  to  guide  me.  If  I  might  sit  beside 
you  as  you  paint!  The  hours  pass  on  leaden  wings 
at  Quesnay — I  could  shriek!  Do  not  refuse  me  a 
few  words  of  instruction,  either  in  the  wildwood, 
whither  I  could  support  your  shrinking  steps,  or, 


176  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

from  time  to  time,  as  you  work  in  your  studio, 
which   (I  glean  from  the  instructive  Mr.   Ferret) 
is   at   Les    Trois  Pigeons.     At   any   hour,   at   any 
moment,  I  will  speed  to  you.     I  am,  sir, 
"Yours,  if  you  will  but  breathe  a  'yes,' 

"ANNE  ELLIOTT." 

To  this  I  returned  a  reply,  as  much  in  her  own 
key  as  I  could  write  it,  putting  my  refusal  on  the 
ground  that  I  was  not  at  present  painting  in  the 
studio.  I  added  that  I  hoped  her  suit  might  prosper, 
regretting  that  I  could  not  be  of  greater  assistance 
to  that  end,  and  concluded  with  the  suggestion 
that  Madame  Brossard  might  entertain  an  offer 
for  lessons  in  cooking. 

The  result  of  my  attempt  to  echo  her  vivacity 
was  discomfiting,  and  I  was  allowed  to  perceive 
that  epistolary  jocularity  was  not  thought  to  be 
my  line.  It  was  Miss  Elizabeth  who  gave  me  this 
instruction  three  days  later,  on  the  way  to  Quesnay 
for  "second  breakfast."  Exercising  fairly  shame- 
faced diplomacy,  I  had  avoided  dining  at  the  chateau 
again,  but,  by  arrangement,  she  had  driven  over  for 
me  this  morning  in  the  phaeton. 

"Why  are  you  writing  silly  notes  to  that  child?" 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN  177 

she  demanded,  as  soon  as  we  were  away  from  the 
inn. 

"Was  it  silly?" 

"You  should  know.  Do  you  think  that  style  of 
humour  suitable  for  a  young  girl?" 

This  bewildered  me  a  little.  "But  there  wasn't 
anything  offensive 

"No?"  Miss  Elizabeth  lifted  her  eyebrows  to  a 
height  of  bland  inquiry.  "She  mightn't  think  it 
rather — well,  rough?  Your  suggesting  that  she 
should  take  cooking  lessons?" 

"But  she  suggested  she  might  take  painting 
lessons,"  was  my  feeble  protest.  "I  only  meant 
to  show  her  I  understood  that  she  wanted  to  get  to 
the  inn." 

"And  why  should  she  care  to  'get  to  the  inn'?" 

"She  seemed  interested  in  a  young  man  who  is 
staying  there,  interested'  is  the  mildest  word  for 
it  I  can  think  of." 

"Pooh!"  Such  was  Miss  Ward's  enigmatic  retort, 
and  though  I  begged  an  explanation  I  got  none. 
Instead,  she  quickened  the  horse's  gait  and  changed 
the  subject. 

At  the  chateau,  having  a  mind  to  offer  some  sort 
of  apology,  I  looked  anxiously  about  for  the  subject 


178  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

of  our  rather  disquieting  conversation,  but  she  was 
not  to  be  seen  until  the  party  assembled  at  the  table, 
set  under  an  awning  on  the  terrace.  Then,  to  my 
disappointment,  I  found  no  opportunity  to  speak  to 
her,  for  her  seat  was  so  placed  as  to  make  it  impos- 
sible, and  she  escaped  into  the  house  immediately 
upon  the  conclusion  of  the  repast,  hurrying  away 
too  pointedly  for  any  attempt  to  detain  her — • 
though,  as  she  passed,  she  sent  me  one  glance  of 
meek  reproach  which  she  was  at  pains  to  make 
elaborately  distinct. 

Again  taking  me  for  her  neighbour  at  the  table, 
Miss  Elizabeth  talked  to  me  at  intervals,  apparently 
having  nothing,  just  then,  to  make  up  to  Mr.  Cres- 
son  Ingle,  but  not  long  after  we  rose  she  accom- 
panied him  upon  some  excursion  of  an  indefinite 
nature,  which  led  her  from  my  sight.  Thus,  the 
others  making  off  to  cards  indoors  and  what  not, 
I  was  left  to  the  perusal  of  the  eighteenth  century 
facade  of  the  chateau,  one  of  the  most  competent 
restorations  in  that  part  of  France,  and  of  the  live- 
liest interest  to  the  student  or  practitioner  of  archi- 
tecture. 

Mrs.  Harman  had  not  appeared  at  all,  having 
gone  to  call  upon  some  one  at  Dives,  I  was  told, 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN  179 

and  a  servant  informing  me  (on  inquiry)  that  Miss 
Elliott  had  retired  to  her  room,  I  was  thrust  upon 
my  own  devices  indeed,  a  condition  already  closely 
associated  in  my  mind  with  this  picturesque  spot. 
The  likeliest  of  my  devices — or,  at  least,  the  one  I 
hit  upon — was  in  the  nature  of  an  unostentatious 
retreat. 

I  went  home. 

However,  as  the  day  was  spoiled  for  work,  I  chose 
a  roundabout  way,  in  fact  the  longest,  and  took 
the  high-road  to  Dives,  but  neither  the  road  nor 
the  town  itself  (when  I  passed  through  it)  rewarded 
my  vague  hope  that  I  might  meet  Mrs.  Harman, 
and  I  strode  the  long  miles  in  considerable  dis- 
gruntlement,  for  it  was  largely  in  that  hope  that 
I  had  gone  to  Quesnay.  It  put  me  in  no  merrier 
rnood  to  find  Miss  Elizabeth's  phaeton  standing 
outside  the  inn  in  charge  of  a  groom,  for  my  vanity 
encouraged  the  supposition  that  she  had  come  out 
of  a  fear  that  my  unceremonious  departure  from 
Quesnay  might  have  indicated  that  I  was  "hurt," 
or  considered  myself  neglected;  and  I  dreaded  having 
to  make  explanations. 

My  apprehensions  were  unfounded;  it  was  not 
Miss  Elizabeth  who  had  come  in  the  phaeton, 


180  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

though  a  lady  from  Quesnay  did  prove  to  be  the 
occupant — the  sole  occupant — of  the  courtyard. 
At  sight  of  her  I  halted  stock-still  under  the 
archway. 

There  she  sat,  a  sketch-book  on  a  green  table 
beside  her  and  a  board  in  her  lap,  brazenly  paint- 
ing— and  a  more  blushless  piece  of  assurance  than 
Miss  Anne  Elliott  thus  engaged  these  eyes  have 
never  beheld. 

She  was  not  so  hardened  that  she  did  not  affect 
a  little  timidity  at  sight  of  me,  looking  away  even 
more  quickly  than  she  looked  up,  while  I  walked 
slowly  over  to  her  and  took  the  garden  chair  beside 
her.  That  gave  me  a  view  of  her  sketch,  which 
was  a  violent  little  "lay-in"  of  shrubbery,  trees, 
and  the  sky-line  of  the  inn.  To  my  prodigious 
surprise  (and,  naturally  enough,  with  a  degree  of 
pleasure)  I  perceived  that  it  was  not  very  bad, 
not  bad  at  all,  indeed.  It  displayed  a  sense  of 
values,  of  placing,  and  even,  in  a  young  and  frantic 
way,  of  colour.  Here  was  a  young  woman  of  more 
than  "accomplishments !" 

"You  see,"  she  said,  squeezing  one  of  the  tiny 
tubes  almost  dry,  and  continuing  to  paint  with  a 
fine  effect  of  absorption,  "I  had  to  show  you  that 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN  181 

I  was  in  the  most  abysmal  earnest.  Will  you  take 
me  painting  with  you?" 

"I  appreciate  your  seriousness,"  I  rejoined.  "Has 
it  been  rewarded?" 

"How  can  I  say?  You  haven't  told  me  whether 
or  no  I  may  follow  you  to  the  wildwood." 

"I  mean,  have  you  caught  another  glimpse  of 
Mr.  Saffren?" 

At  that  she  showed  a  prettier  colour  in  her  cheeks 
than  any  in  her  sketch-box,  but  gave  no  other  sign  of 
shame, nor  even  of  being  flustered, cheerfully  replying: 

"That  is  far  from  the  point.  Do  you  grant  my 
burning  plea?" 

"I  understood  I  had  offended  you." 

"You  did,"  she  said.     "Viciously!" 

"I  am  sorry,"  I  continued.  "I  wanted  to  ask 
you  to  forgive  me 

I  spoke  seriously,  and  that  seemed  to  strike  her 
as  odd  or  needing  explanation,  for  she  levelled  her 
blue  eyes  at  me,  and  interrupted,  with  something 
more  like  seriousness  in  her  own  voice  than  I  had 
yet  heard  from  her: 

"What  made  you  think  I  was  offended?" 

"Your  look  of  reproach  when  you  left  the 
table " 


182  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

"Nothing  else?"  she  asked  quickly. 

"Yes;  Miss  Ward  told  me  you  were." 

"Yes;  she  drove  over  with  you.  That's  it!"  she 
exclaimed  with  vigour,  and  nodded  her  head  as  if 
some  suspicion  of  hers  had  been  confirmed.  "I 
thought  so!" 

"You  thought  she  had  told  me?" 

"No,"  said  Miss  Elliott  decidedly.  "Thought 
that  Elizabeth  wanted  to  have  her  cake  and  eat 
it  too." 

"I  don't  understand." 

"Then  you'll  get  no  help  from  me,"  she  returned 
slowly,  a  frown  marking  her  pretty  forehead.  "But 
I  was  only  playing  offended,  and  she  knew  it.  I 
thought  your  note  was  that  fetching!" 

She  continued  to  look  thoughtful  for  a  moment 
longer,  then  with  a  resumption  of  her  former  manner 
— the  pretence  of  an  earnestness  much  deeper  than 
the  real — "Will  you  take  me  painting  with  you?" 
she  said.  "If  it  will  convince  you  that  I  mean  it, 
I'll  give  up  my  hopes  of  seeing  that  sumptuous 
Mr.  Saffren  and  go  back  to  Quesnay  now,  before 
he  comes  home.  He's  been  out  for  a  walk — a  long 
one,  since  it's  lasted  ever  since  early  this  morning, 
so  the  waiter  told  me.  May  I  go  with  you?  You 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN  183 

can't  know  how  enervating  it  is  up  there  at  the 
chateau — all  except  Mrs.  Harman,  and  even  she— 

"What  about  Mrs.  Harman?"  I  asked,  as  she 
paused. 

"I  think  she  must  be  in  love." 

"What!" 

"I  do  think  so,"  said  the  girl.  "She's  like  it,  at 
least." 

"But  with  whom?" 

She  laughed  gaily.     "I'm  afraid  she's  my  rival!" 

"Not  with—"  I  began. 

"Yes,  with  your  beautiful  and  mad  young  friend." 

"But — oh,  it's  preposterous!"  I  cried,  profoundly 
disturbed.  "She  couldn't  be!  If  you  knew  a  great 
deal  about  her " 

"I  may  know  more  than  you  think.  My  simplicity 
of  appearance  is  deceptive,"  she  mocked,  beginning 
to  set  her  sketch-box  in  order.  "You  don't  realise 
that  Mrs.  Harman  and  I  are  quite  hurled  upon  each 
other  at  Quesnay,  being  two  ravishingly  intelligent 
women  entirely  surrounded  by  large  bodies  of  elemen- 
tals.  She  has  told  me  a  great  deal  of  herself  since 
that  first  evening,  and  I  know — well,  I  know  why  she 
did  not  come  back  from  Dives  this  afternoon,  for 
instance." 


184  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

"Why?"  I  fairly  shouted. 

She  slid  her  sketch  into  a  groove  in  the  box,  which 
she  closed,  and  rose  to  her  feet  before  answering. 
Then  she  set  her  hat  a  little  straighter  with  a  touch, 
looking  so  fixedly  and  with  such  grave  interest  over 
my  shoulder  that  I  turned  to  follow  her  glance  and 
encountered  our  reflections  in  a  window  of  the  inn. 
Her  own  shed  a  light  upon  that  mystery,  at  all 
events. 

"I  might  tell  you  some  day,"  she  said  indiffer- 
ently, "if  I  gained  enough  confidence  in  you  through 
association  in  daily  pursuits." 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  I  cried  with  real  exas- 
peration, "I  am  a  working  man,  and  this  is  a  work- 
ing summer  for  me !" 

"Do  you  think  I'd  spoil  it?"  she  urged  gently. 

"But  I  get  up  with  the  first  daylight  to  paint," 
I  protested,  "and  I  paint  all  day- 
She  moved  a  step  nearer  me  and  laid  her  hand 
warningly  upon  my  sleeve,  checking  the  outburst. 

I  turned  to  see  what  she  meant. 

Oliver  Saffren  had  come  in  from  the  road  and  was 
crossing  to  the  gallery  steps.  He  lifted  his  hat  and 
gave  me  a  quick  word  of  greeting  as  he  passed,  and 
at  the  sight  of  his  flushed  and  happy  face  my  riddle 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN  185 

was  solved  for  me.     Amazing  as  the  thing  was,  I 
had  no  doubt  of  the  revelation. 

"Ah,"  I  said  to  Miss  Elliott  when  he  had  gone, 
"I  won't  have  to  take  pupils  to  get  the  answer  to 
my  question,  now!" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

HA,  these  philosophers,"  said  the  professor, 
expanding  in  discourse  a  little  later — 
"these  dreamy  people  who  talk  of  the 
spirit,  they  tell  you  that  spirit  is  abstract!"  He 
waved  his  great  hand  in  a  sweeping  semicircle 
which  carried  it  out  of  our  orange  candle-light 
and  freckled  it  with  the  cold  moonshine  which 
sieved  through  the  loosened  screen  of  honeysuckle. 
"Ha,  the  folly!" 

"What  do  you  say  it  is?"  I  asked,  moving  so  that 
the  smoke  of  my  cigar  should  not  drift  toward  Oliver, 
who  sat  looking  out  into  the  garden. 

"I,  my  friend?  I  do  not  say  that  it  is!  But  all 
such  things,  they  are  only  a  question  of  names,  and 
when  I  use  the  word  'spirit'  I  mean  identity- 
universal  identity,  if  you  like.  It  is  what  we  all 
are,  yes — and  those  flowers,  too.  But  the  spirit  of 
the  flowers  is  not  what  you  smell,  nor  what  you 
see,  that  look  so  pretty:  it  is  the  flowers  themself! 

Yet  all  spirit  is  only  one  spirit  and  one  spirit  is  all 

186 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN  187 

spirit — and  if  you  tell  me  this  is  Pant'eism  I  will 
tell  you  that  you  do  not  understand  !" 

"I  don't  tell  you  that,"  said  I,  "neither  do  I 
understand." 

"Nor  that  big  Keredec  either!"  Whereupon  he 
loosed  the  rolling  thunder  of  his  laughter.  "Nor 
any  brain  born  of  the  monkey  people!  But  this 
world  is  full  of  proof  that  everything  that  exist  is 
all  one  thing,  and  it  is  the  instinct  of  that,  when  it 
draws  us  together,  which  makes  what  we  call  'love/ 
Even  those  wicked  devils  of  egoism  in  our  inside  is 
only  love  which  grows  too  long  the  wrong  way,  like 
the  finger  nails  of  the  Chinese  empress.  Young  love 
is  a  little  sprout  of  universal  unity.  When  the  young 
people  begin  to  feel  it,  they  are  not  abstract,  ha? 
And  the  young  man,  when  he  selects,  he  chooses  one 
being  from  all  the  others  to  mean — just  for  him — all 
that  great  universe  of  which  he  is  a  part." 

This  was  wandering  whimsically  far  afield,  but  as 
I  caught  the  good-humoured  flicker  of  the  professor's 
glance  at  our  companion  I  thought  I  saw  a  purpose 
hi  his  deviation.  Saffren  turned  toward  him  wonder- 
ingly,  his  unconscious,  eager  look  remarkably  em- 
phasised and  brightened. 

"All  such  things  are  most  strange — great  mys- 


188  THE  GUEST  OF  QTJESNAY 

teries,"  continued  the  professor.  "For  when  a  man 
has  made  the  selection,  that  being  does  become  all 
the  universe,  and  for  him  there  is  nothing  else  at 
all— nothing  else  anywhere!" 

Saffren's  cheeks  and  temples  were  flushed  as  they 
had  been  when  I  saw  him  returning  that  afternoon; 
and  his  eyes  were  wide,  fixed  upon  Keredec  in  a 
stare  of  utter  amazement. 

"Yes,  that  is  true,"  he  said  slowly.  "How  did 
you  know?" 

Keredec  returned  his  look  with  an  attentive 
scrutiny,  and  made  some  exclamation  under  his 
breath,  which  I  did  not  catch,  but  there  was  no 
mistaking  his  high  good  humour. 

"Bravo!"  he  shouted,  rising  and  clapping  the 
other  upon  the  shoulder.  "You  will  soon  cure  my 
rheumatism  if  you  ask  me  questions  like  that! 
Ho,  ho,  ho!"  He  threw  back  his  head  and  let  the 
mighty  salvos  forth.  "Ho,  ho,  ho!  How  do  I  know? 
The  young,  always  they  believe  they  are  the  only 
ones  who  were  ever  young!  Ho,  ho,  ho!  Come, 
we  shall  make  those  lessons  very  easy  to-night. 
Come,  my  friend!  How  could  that  big,  old  Keredec 
know  of  such  things?  He  is  too  old,  too  foolish! 
Ho,  ho,  ho!" 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN  189 

As  he  went  up  the  steps,  the  courtyard  rever- 
berating again  to  his  laughter,  his  arm  resting 
on  Saffren's  shoulders,  but  not  so  heavily  as  usual. 
The  door  of  their  salon  closed  upon  them,  and  for 
a  while  Keredec's  voice  could  be  heard  boom- 
ing cheerfully;  it  ended  in  another  burst  of 
laughter. 

A  moment  later  Saffren  opened  the  door  and 
called  to  me. 

"Here,"  I  answered  from  my  veranda,  where  I 
had  just  lighted  my  second  cigar. 

"No  more  work  to-night.  All  finished,"  he  cried 
jubilantly,  springing  down  the  steps.  "I'm  coming 
to  have  a  talk  with  you." 

Amedee  had  removed  the  candles,  the  moon  had 
withdrawn  in  fear  of  a  turbulent  mob  of  clouds, 
rioting  into  our  sky  from  seaward;  the  air  smelled 
of  imminent  rain,  and  it  was  so  dark  that  I  could 
see  my  visitor  only  as  a  vague,  tall  shape;  but  a 
happy  excitement  vibrated  in  his  rich  voice,  and 
his  step  on  the  gravelled  path  was  light  and 
exultant. 

"I  won't  sit  down,"  he  said.  "I'll  walk  up  and 
down  in  front  of  the  veranda — if  it  doesn't  make 
you  nervous." 


190  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

For  answer  I  merely  laughed;  and  he  laughed 
too,  in  genial  response,  continuing  gaily: 

"Oh,  it's  all  so  different  with  me!  Everything  is. 
That  blind  feeling  I  told  you  of — it's  all  gone.  I 
must  have  been  very  babyish,  the  other  day;  I  don't 
think  I  could  feel  like  that  again.  It  used  to  seem 
to  me  that  I  lived  penned  up  in  a  circle  of  blank 
stone  walls;  I  couldn't  see  over  the  top  for  myself 
at  all,  though  now  and  then  Keredec  would  boost 
me  up  and  let  me  get  a  little  glimmer  of  the  country 
round  about — but  never  long  enough  to  see  what  it 
was  really  like.  But  it's  not  so  now.  Ah !" — he  drew 
a  long  breath — "I'd  like  to  run.  I  think  I  could 
run  all  the  way  to  the  top  of  a  pretty  fair-sized 
mountain  to-night,  and  then" — he  laughed — "jump 
off  and  ride  on  the  clouds." 

"I  know  how  that  is,"  I  responded.  "At  least 
I  did  know — a  few  years  ago." 

"Everything  is  a  jumble  with  me,"  he  went  on 
happily,  in  a  confidential  tone,  "yet  it's  a  heavenly 
kind  of  jumble.  I  can't  put  anything  into  words. 
I  don't  think  very  well  yet,  though  Keredec  is  trying 
to  teach  me.  My  thoughts  don't  run  in  order,  and 
this  that's  happened  seems  to  make  them  wilder, 
queerer — "  He  stopped  short. 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN  191 

"What  has  happened?" 

He  paused  in  his  sentry-go,  facing  me,  and 
answered,  in  a  low  voice: 

"I've  seen  her  again." 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"She  told  me  you  knew  it,"  he  said,  "—that 
she  had  told  you." 

"Yes." 

"But  that's  not  all,"  he  said,  his  voice  rising  a 
little.  "I  saw  her  again  the  day  after  she  told 
you " 

"You  did!"  I  murmured. 

"Oh,  I  tell  myself  that  it's  a  dream,"  he  cried, 
"that  it  can't  be  true.  For  it  has  been  every  day 
since  then!  That's  why  I  haven't  joined  you  in  the 
woods.  I  have  been  with  her,  walking  with  her, 
listening  to  her,  looking  at  her — always  feeling  that 
it  must  be  unreal  and  that  I  must  try  not  to  wake 
up.  She  has  been  so  kind — so  wonderfully,  beauti- 
fully kind  to  me!" 

"She  has  met  you?"  I  asked,  thinking  ruefully 
of  George  Ward,  now  on  the  high  seas  in  the  pleas- 
ant company  of  old  hopes  renewed. 

"She  has  let  me  meet  her.  And  to-day  we  lunched 
at  the  inn  at  Dives  and  then  walked  by  the  sea  all 


192  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

afternoon.  She  gave  me  the  whole  day — the  whole 
day!  You  see" — he  began  to  pace  again — "you  see 
I  was  right,  and  you  were  wrong.  She  wasn't 
offended — she  was  glad — that  I  couldn't  help  speak- 
ing to  her;  she  has  said  so." 

"Do  you  think,"  I  interrupted,  "that  she  would 
wish  you  to  tell  me  this?" 

"Ah,  she  likes  you!"  he  said  so  heartily,  and 
appearing  meanwhile  so  satisfied  with  the  com- 
pleteness of  his  reply,  that  I  was  fain  to  take  some 
satisfaction  in  it  myself.  "What  I  wanted  most  to 
say  to  you,"  he  went  on,  "is  this:  you  remember 
you  promised  to  tell  me  whatever  you  could  learn 
about  her — and  about  her  husband?" 

"I  remember." 

*  "It's  different  now.  I  don't  want  you  to,"  he  said. 
"I  want  only  to  know  what  she  tells  me  herself.  She 
has  told  me  very  little,  but  I  know  when  the  time  comes 
she  will  tell  me  everything.  But  I  wouldn't  hasten 
it.  I  wouldn't  have  anything  changed  from  just  this!99 

"You  mean " 

"I  mean  the  way  it  is.  If  I  could  hope  to  see  her 
every  day,  to  be  in  the  woods  with  her,  or  down  by 
the  shore — oh,  I  don't  want  to  know  anything  but 
that!" 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN  193 

"No  doubt  you  have  told  her,"  I  ventured,  "a 
good  deal  about  yourself,"  and  was  instantly 
ashamed  of  myself.  I  suppose  I  spoke  out  of  a 
sense  of  protest  against  Mrs.  Harman's  strange 
lack  of  conventionality,  against  so  charming  a 
lady's  losing  her  head  as  completely  as  she  seemed 
to  have  lost  hers,  and  it  may  have  been,  too,  out  of 
a  feeling  of  jealousy  for  poor  George — possibly 
even  out  of  a  little  feeling  of  the  same  sort  on 
my  own  account.  But  I  couldn't  have  said  it 
except  for  the  darkness,  and,  as  I  say,  I  was 
instantly  ashamed. 

It  does  not  whiten  my  guilt  that  the  shaft  did 
not  reach  him. 

"I've  told  her  all  I  know,"  he  said  readily,  and 
the  unconscious  pathos  of  the  answer  smote  me. 
"And  all  that  Keredec  has  let  me  know.  You  see 
I  haven't " 

"But  do  you  think,"  I  interrupted  quickly, 
anxious,  in  my  remorse,  to  divert  him  from  that 
channel,  "do  you  think  Professor  Keredec  would 
approve,  if  he  knew?" 

"I  think  he  would,"  he  responded  slowly,  pausing 
in  his  walk  again.  "I  have  a  feeling  that  perhaps 
he  does  know,  and  yet  I  have  been  afraid  to  tell  him, 


194  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

afraid  he  might  try  to  stop  me — keep  me  from 
going  to  wait  for  her.  But  he  has  a  strange  waj 
of  knowing  things;  I  think  he  knows  everything  in 
the  world!  I  have  felt  to-night  that  he  knows  this, 
and — it's  very  strange,  but  I — well,  what  was  i\ 
that  made  him  so  glad?" 

"The  light  is  still  burning  in  his  room,"  I  said 
quietly. 

"You  mean  that  I  ought  to  tell  him?"  His  voice 
rose  a  little. 

"He's  done  a  good  deal  for  you,  hasn't  he?"  ] 
suggested.  "And  even  if  he  does  know  he  mighi 
like  to  hear  it  from  you." 

"You're  right;  I'll  tell  him  to-night."  This  came 
with  sudden  decision,  but  with  less  than  markec 
what  followed.  "But  he  can't  stop  me,  now.  Nc 
one  on  earth  shall  do  that,  except  Madame  d'Ar- 
mand  herself.  No  one!" 

"I  won't  quarrel  with  that,"  I  said  drily,  throw- 
ing away  my  cigar,  which  had  gone  out  long  before, 

He  hesitated,  and  then  I  saw  his  hand  groping 
toward  me  in  the  darkness,  and,  rising,  I  gave  him 
mine. 

"Good  night,"  he  said,  and  shook  my  hand  as  the 
first  sputterings  of  the  coming  rain  began  to  pattei 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN  195 

on  the  roof  of  the  pavilion.  "I'm  glad  to  tell  him; 
I'm  glad  to  have  told  you.  Ah,  but  isn't  this,"  he 
cried,  "a  happy  world!" 

Turning,  he  ran  to  the  gallery  steps.  "At  last 
I'm  glad,"  he  called  back  over  his  shoulder,  "I'm 
glad  that  I  was  born " 

A  gust  of  wind  blew  furiously  into  the  courtyard 
at  that  instant,  and  I  heard  his  voice  indistinctly, 
but  I  thought — though  I  might  have  been  mistaken 
—that  I  caught  a  final  word,  and  that  it  was  "again." 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  rain  of  two  nights  and  two  days  had 
freshened  the  woods,  deepening  the  green 
of  the  tree-trunks  and  washing  the  dust 
from  the  leaves,  and  now,  under  the  splendid  sun  of 
the  third  morning,  we  sat  painting  in  a  sylvan  aisle 
that  was  like  a  hall  of  Aladdin's  palace,  the  filigreed 
arches  of  foliage  above  us  glittering  with  pendulous 
rain-drops.  But  Arabian  Nights'  palaces  are  not  to 
my  fancy  for  painting;  the  air,  rinsed  of  its  colour, 
was  too  sparklingly  clean;  the  interstices  of  sky  and 
the  roughly  framed  distances  I  prized,  were  brought 
too  close.  It  was  one  of  those  days  when  Nature 
throws  herself  straight  in  your  face  and  you  are 
at  a  loss  to  know  whether  she  has  kissed  you  or 
slapped  you,  though  you  are  conscious  of  the  tingle; 
— a  day,  in  brief,  more  for  laughing  than  for  paint- 
ing, and  the  truth  is  that  I  suited  its  mood  only  too 
well,  and  laughed  more  than  I  painted,  though  I  sat 
with  my  easel  before  me  and  a  picture  ready  upon 
my  palette  to  be  painted. 

No  one  could  have  understood  better  than  I  that 

196 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN  197 

this  was  setting  a  bad  example  to  the  acolyte  who 
sat,  likewise  facing  an  easel,  ten  paces  to  my  left;  a 
very  sportsmanlike  figure  of  a  painter  indeed,  in  her 
short  skirt  and  long  coat  of  woodland  brown,  the 
fine  brown  of  dead  oak-leaves;  a  "devastating" 
selection  of  colour  that! — being  much  the  same 
shade  as  her  hair — with  brown  for  her  hat  too, 
and  the  veil  encircling  the  small  crown  thereof, 
and  brown  again  for  the  stout,  high,  laced  boots 
which  protected  her  from  the  wet  tangle  under- 
foot. Who  could  have  expected  so  dashing  a  young 
person  as  this  to  do  any  real  work  at  painting? 
Yet  she  did,  narrowing  her  eyes  to  the  finest  point 
of  concentration,  and  applying  herself  to  the  task 
in  hand  with  a  persistence  which  I  found,  on  that 
particular  morning,  far  beyond  my  own  powers. 

As  she  leaned  back  critically,  at  the  imminent 
risk  of  capsizing  her  camp-stool,  and  herself  with 
it,  in  her  absorption,  some  ill-suppressed  token  of 
amusement  most  have  caught  her  ear,  for  she  turned 
upon  me  with  suspicion,  and  was  instantly  moved 
to  moralize  upon  the  reluctance  I  had  shown  to 
accept  her  as  a  companion  for  my  excursions;  taking 
as  her  theme,  in  contrast,  her  own  present  display 
of  ambition;  all  in  all  a  warm,  if  overcoloured, 


198  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

sketch  of  the  idle  master  and  the  industrious 
apprentice.  It  made  me  laugh  again,  upon  which 
she  changed  the  subject. 

"An  indefinable  something  tells  me,"she  announced 
coldly,  "that  henceforth  you  needn't  be  so  drastically 
fearful  of  being  dragged  to  the  chateau  for  dinner, 
nor  dejeuner  either !" 

"Did  anything  ever  tell  you  that  I  had  cause  to 
fear  it?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  but  too  simply.     "Jean  Ferret." 

"Anglicise  that  ruffian's  name,"  I  muttered,  mirth 
immediately  withering  upon  me,  "and  you'll  know 
him  better.  To  save  time :  will  you  mention  anything 
you  can  think  of  that  he  hasn't  told  you?" 

Miss  Elliott  cocked  her  head  upon  one  side  to 
examine  the  work  of  art  she  was  producing,  while  . 
a  slight  smile,  playing  about  her  lips,  seemed  to 
indicate  that  she  was  appeased.  "You  and  Miss 
Ward  are  old  and  dear  friends,  aren't  you?"  she 
asked  absently. 

"We  are!"  I  answered  between  my  teeth.  "For 
years  I  have  sent  her  costly  jewels — 

She  interrupted  me  by  breaking  outright  into  a 
peal  of  laughter,  which  rang  with  such  childish 
delight  that  I  retorted  by  offering  several  malevolent 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN  199 

observations  upon  the  babbling  of  French  servants 
and  the  order  of  mind  attributable  to  those  who 
listened  to  them.  Her  defence  was  to  affect  inat- 
tention and  paint  busily  until  some  time  after  I 
had  concluded. 

"I  think  she's  going  to  take  Cressie  Ingle,"  she 
said  dreamily,  with  the  air  of  one  whose  thoughts 
have  been  far,  far  away.  "It  looks  preponderously 
like  it.  She's  been  teetertottering  these  ages  and 
ages  between  you " 

"Between  whom?" 

"You  and  Mr.  Ingle,"  she  replied,  not  altering 
her  tone  in  the  slightest.  "But  she's  all  for  her 
brother,  of  course,  and  though  you're  his  friend, 
Ingle  is  a  personage  in  the  world  they  court,  and 
among  the  multitudinous  things  his  father  left  him 
is  an  art  magazine,  or  one  that's  long  on  art  or 
something  of  that  sort — I  don't  know  just  what— 
so  altogether  it  will  be  a  good  thing  for  dearest 
Mr.  Ward.  She  likes  Cressie,  of  course,  though 
I  think  she  likes  you  better 

I  managed  to  find  my  voice  and  interrupt  the 
thistle-brained  creature.  "What  put  these  fan- 
tasias into  your  head?" 

"Not    Jean    Ferret,"    she    responded    promptly. 


200  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

"It's  cruel  of  me  to  break  it  to  you  so  coarsely — 
I  know — but  if  you  are  ever  going  to  make  up 
your  mind  to  her  building  as  glaring  a  success 
of  you  as  she  has  of  her  brother,  I  think  you  must 
do  it  now.  She's  on  the  point  of  accepting  Mr. 
Ingle,  and  what  becomes  of  you  will  depend  on 
your  conduct  hi  the  most  immediate  future.  She 
won't  ask  you  to  Quesnay  again,  so  you'd  better 
go  up  there  on  your  own  accord. — And  on  your 
bended  knees,  too!"  she  added  as  an  afterthought. 

I  sought  for  something  to  say  which  might  have 
a  chance  of  impressing  her — a  desperate  task  on  the 
face  of  it — and  I  mentioned  that  Miss  Ward  was 
her  hostess. 

One  might  as  well  have  tried  to  impress  Amedee. 
She  "made  a  little  mouth"  and  went  on  dabbling 
with  her  brushes.  "Hostess?  Pooh!"  she  said 
cheerfully.  "My  infantile  father  sent  me  here  to 
be  in  her  charge  while  he  ran  home  to  America. 
Mr.  Ward's  to  paint  my  portrait,  when  he  comes. 
Give  and  take — it's  simple  enough,  you  see!" 

Here  was  frankness  with  a  vengeance,  and  I  fell 
back  upon  silence,  whereupon  a  pause  ensued,  to 
my  share  of  which  I  imparted  the  deepest  shadow 
of  disapproval  within  my  p~ —  TT~*  rtunately, 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN  201 

she  did  not  look  at  me;  my  effort  passed  with  no 
other  effect  than  to  make  some  of  my  facial  muscles 
ache. 

"  'Portrait  of  Miss  E.,  by  George  Ward,  H.  C./  " 
this  painfully  plain-speaking  young  lady  continued 
presently.  "On  the  line  at  next  spring's  Salon, 
then  packed  up  for  the  dear  ones  at  home.  I'd 
as  soon  own  an  'Art  Bronze,'  myself — or  a  nice, 
clean  porcelain  Arab." 

"No  doubt  you've  forgotten  for  the  moment," 
I  said,  "that  Mr.  Ward  is  my  friend." 

"Not  in  painting,  he  isn't,"  she  returned  quickly. 

"I  consider  his  work  altogether  creditable;  it's 
carefully  done,  conscientious,  effective " 

"Isn't  that  true  of  the  ladies  in  the  hairdressers' 
windows?"  she  asked  with  assumed  artlessness. 
"Can't  you  say  a  kind  word  for  them,  good  gentle- 
man, and  heaven  bless  you?" 

"Why  sha'n't  I  be  asked  to  Quesnay  again?" 

She  laughed.  "You  haven't  seemed  fanatically 
appreciative  of  your  opportunities  when  you  have 
been  there;  you  might  have  carried  her  off  from 
Cresson  Ingle  instead  of  vice  versa.  But  after 
all,  you  aren't'9 — here  she  paused  and  looked  at 
me  appraisingly  for  a  r  -nnent — "you  aren't  the 


202  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

most  piratical  dash-in-and-dash-out  and  leave-every^ 
thing-upside-down-behind-you  sort  of  man,  are 
you?" 

"No,  I  believe  I'm  not." 

"However,  that's  only  a  small  half  of  the  reason/* 
Miss  Elliott  went  on.  "She's  furious  on  account  of 
this." 

These  were  vague  words,  and  I  said  so. 

"Oh,  this"  she  explained,  "my  being  here;  your 
letting  me  come.  Impropriety — all  of  that!"  A 
sharp  whistle  issued  from  her  lips.  "Oh!  the  excoriat- 
ing things  she's  said  of  my  pursuing  you!" 

"But  doesn't  she  know  that  it's  only  part  of  your 
siege  of  Madame  Brossard's;  that  it's  a  subterfuge 
in  the  hope  of  catching  a  glimpse  of  Oliver  Saffren?" 

"No!"  she  cried,  her  eyes  dancing;  "I  told  her 
that,  but  she  thinks  it's  only  a  subterfuge  in 
the  hope  of  catching  more  than  a  glimpse  of  you!" 

I  joined  laughter  with  her  then.  She  was  the 
first  to  stop,  and,  looking  at  me  somewhat  doubt- 
fully, she  said: 

"Whereas,  the  truth  is  that  it's  neither.  You 
know  very  well  that  I  want  to  paint." 

"Certainly,"  I  agreed  at  once.  "Your  devo- 
tion to  'your  art'  and  y^ur  hope  of  spending  half 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN  203 

an  hour  at  Madame  Brossard's  now  and  then  are 
separable; — which  reminds  me:  Wouldn't  you  like 
me  to  look  at  your  sketch?" 

"No,  not  yet."  She  jumped  up  and  brought  her 
camp-stool  over  to  mine.  "I  feel  that  I  could 
better  bear  what  you'll  say  of  it  after  I've  had  some 
lunch.  Not  a  syllable  of  food  has  crossed  my  lips 
since  coffee  at  dawn!" 

I  spread  before  her  what  Amedee  had  prepared; 
not  sandwiches  for  the  pocket  to-day,  but  a  wicker 
hamper,  one  end  of  which  we  let  rest  upon  her 
knees,  the  other  upon  mine,  and  at  sight  of  the 
foie  gras,  the  delicate,  devilled  partridge,  the  truffled 
salad,  the  fine  yellow  cheese,  and  the  long  bottle 
of  good  red  Beaune,  revealed  when  the  cover  was 
off,  I  could  almost  have  forgiven  the  old  rascal 
for  his  scandal-mongering.  As  for  my  vis-a-vis, 
she  pronounced  it  a  "maddening  sight." 

"Fall  to,  my  merry  man,"  she  added,  "and  eat 
your  fill  of  this  fair  pasty,  under  the  greenwood 
tree."  Obeying  her  instructions  with  right  good- 
will, and  the  lady  likewise  evincing  no  hatred  of 
the  viands,  we  made  a  cheerful  meal  of  it,  topping 
it  with  peaches  and  bunches  of  grapes. 

"It  is  unfair  to  let  you  do  all  the  catering/* 


204  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

said    Miss    Elliott,    after    carefully    selecting    the 
largest  and  best  peach. 

"Jean  Ferret's  friend  does  that,"  I  returned, 
watching  her  rather  intently  as  she  dexterously 
peeled  the  peach.  She  did  it  very  daintily,  I  had 
to  admit  that — though  I  regretted  to  observe  in- 
dications of  the  gourmet  in  one  so  young.  But 
when  it  was  peeled  clean,  she  set  it  on  a  fresh  green 
leaf,  and,  to  my  surprise,  gave  it  to  me. 

"You  see,"  she  continued,  not  observing  my 
remorseful  confusion,  "I  couldn't  destroy  Elizabeth's 
peace  of  mind  and  then  raid  her  larder  to  boot. 
That  poor  lady!  I  make  her  trouble  enough,  but 
it's  nothing  to  what  she's  going  to  have  when  she 
finds  out  some  things  that  she  must  find  out." 

"What  is  that?" 

"About  Mrs.  Harman,"  was  the  serious  reply. 
"Elizabeth  hasn't  a  clue." 

"  'Clue'?"  I  echoed. 

"To  Louise's  strange  affair."  Miss  Elliott's  ex- 
pression had  grown  as  serious  as  her  tone.  "It  is 
strange;  the  strangest  thing  I  ever  knew." 

"But  there's  your  own  case,"  I  urged.  "Why 
should  you  think  it  strange  of  her  to  take  an  interest 
in  Saffren?" 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN  205 

"I  adore  him,  of  course,"  she  said.  "He  is  the 
most  glorious-looking  person  I've  ever  seen,  but 
on  my  word — "  She  paused,  and  as  her  gaze  met 
mine  I  saw  real  earnestness  in  her  eyes.  "I'm 
afraid — I  was  half  joking  the  other  day — but  now 
I'm  really  afraid  Louise  is  beginning  to  be  in  love 
with  him." 

"Oh,  mightn't  it  be  only  interest,  so  far?"  I 
said. 

"No,  it's  much  more.  And  I've  grown  so  fond 
of  her!"  the  girl  went  on,  her  voice  unexpectedly 
verging  upon  tremulousness.  "She's  quite  wonder- 
ful in  her  way — such  an  understanding  sort  of 
woman,  and  generous  and  kind;  there  are  so  many 
things  turning  up  in  a  party  like  ours  at  Quesnay 
that  show  what  people  are  really  made  of,  and  she's 
a  rare,  fine  spirit.  It  seems  a  pity,  with  such  a 
miserable  first  experience  as  she  had,  that  this 
should  happen.  Oh  I  know,"  she  continued  rapidly, 
cutting  off  a  half -formed  protest  of  mine.  "He 
isn't  mad — and  I'm  sorry  I  tried  to  be  amusing 
about  it  the  night  you  dined  at  the  chateau.  I 
know  perfectly  well  he's  not  insane;  but  I'm  ab- 
solutely sure,  from  one  thing  and  another,  that — 
well — he  isn't  all  there!  He's  as  beautiful  as  a 


206  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

seraph  and  probably  as  good  as  one,  but  something 
is  missing  about  him — and  it  begins  to  look  like 
a  second  tragedy  for  her." 

"You  mean,  she  really—  "  I  began. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  she  returned,  with  a  catch  in  her 
throat.  "She  comes  to  my  room  when  the  others 
are  asleep.  Not  that  she  tells  me  a  great  deal, 
but  it's  in  the  air,  somehow;  she  told  me  with  such 
a  strained  sort  of  gaiety  of  their  meeting  and  his 
first  joining  her;  and  there  was  something  under- 
neath as  if  she  thought  7  might  be  really  serious 
in  my  ravings  about  him,  and — yes,  as  if  she  meant 
to  warn  me  off.  And  the  other  night,  when  I  saw 
her  after  their  lunching  together  at  Dives,  I  asked 
her  teasingly  if  she'd  had  a  happy  day,  and  she 
laughed  the  prettiest  laugh  I  ever  heard  and  put 
her  arms  around  me — then  suddenly  broke  out  cry- 
ing and  ran  out  of  the  room." 

"But  that  may  have  been  no  more  than  over- 
strained nerves,"  I  feebly  suggested. 

"Of  course  it  was!"  she  cried,  regarding  me  with 
justifiable  astonishment.  "It's  the  cause  of  their 
being  overstrained  that  interests  me!  It's  all  so 
strange  and  distressing,"  she  continued  more  gently, 
"that  I  wish  I  weren't  there  to  see  it.  And  there  V 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN  207 

poor  George  Ward  coining — ah!  and  when  Elizabeth 
learns  of  it!" 

"Mrs.  Harman  had  her  way  once,  in  spite  of 
everything,"  I  said  thoughtfully. 

"Yes,  she  was  a  headstrong  girl  of  nineteen,  then. 
But  let's  not  think  it  could  go  as  far  as  that! 
There!"  She  threw  a  peach-stone  over  her  shoulder 
and  sprang  up  gaily.  "Let's  not  talk  of  it;  I  think 
of  it  enough!  It's  time  for  you  to  give  me  a  racking 
criticism  on  my  morning's  work." 

Taking  off  her  coat  as  she  spoke,  she  unbuttoned 
the  cuffs  of  her  manly  blouse  and  rolled  up  her 
sleeves  as  far  as  they  would  go,  preparations  which 
I  observed  with  some  perplexity. 

"If  you  intend  any  violence,"  said  I,  "in  case 
my  views  of  your  work  shouldn't  meet  your  own, 
I  think  I'll  be  leaving." 

"Wait,"  she  responded,  and  kneeling  upon  one 
knee  beside  a  bush  near  by,  thrust  her  arms  elbow- 
deep  under  the  outer  mantle  of  leaves,  shaking  the 
stems  vigorously,  and  sending  down  a  shower  of 
sparkling  drops.  Never  lived  sane  man,  or  madman, 
since  time  began,  who,  seeing  her  then,  could  or 
would  have  denied  that  she  made  the  very  prettiest 
picture  ever  seen  by  any  person  or  persons  what- 


208  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

soever — but  her  purpose  was  difficult  to  fathom. 
Pursuing  it,  I  remarked  that  it  was  improbable 
that  birds  would  be  nesting  so  low. 

"It's  for  a  finger  bowl,"  she  said  briskly.  And 
rising,  this  most  practical  of  her  sex  dried  her  hands 
upon  a  fresh  serviette  from  the  hamper.  "Last 
night's  rain  is  worth  two  birds  in  the  bush." 

With  that,  she  readjusted  her  sleeves,  lightly 
donned  her  coat,  and  preceded  me  to  her  easel. 
"Now,"  she  commanded,  "slaughter!  It's  what  I 
let  you  come  with  me  for." 

I  looked  at  her  sketch  with  much  more  attention 
than  I  had  given  the  small  board  she  had  used  as 
a  bait  in  the  courtyard  of  Les  Trois  Pigeons.  To- 
day she  showed  a  larger  ambition,  and  a  larger 
canvas  as  well — or,  perhaps  I  should  say  a  larger 
burlap,  for  she  had  chosen  to  paint  upon  some- 
thing strongly  resembling  a  square  of  coffee-sacking. 
But  there  was  no  doubt  she  had  "found  colour" 
in  a  swash-buckling,  bullying  style  of  forcing  it  to 
be  there,  whether  it  was  or  not,  and  to  "vibrate," 
whether  it  did  or  not.  There  was  not  much  to  be 
said,  for  the  violent  kind  of  thing  she  had  done 
always  hushes  me;  and  even  when  it  is  well  done 
I  am  never  sure  whether  its  right  place  is  the  "Salon 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN  209 

des  Independants"  or  the  Luxembourg.  It  seems 
dreadful,  and  yet  sometimes  I  fear  in  secret  that  it 
may  be  a  real  transition,  or  even  an  awakening, 
and  that  the  men  I  began  with,  and  I,  are  stand- 
ing still.  The  older  men  called  us  lunatics  once, 
and  the  critics  said  we  were  "daring,"  but  that  was 
long  ago. 

"Well?"  she  said. 

I  had  to  speak,  so  I  paraphrased  a  mot  of  Degas 
(I  think  it  was  Degas)  and  said: 

"If  Rousseau  could  come  to  life  and  see  this 
sketch  of  yours,  I  imagine  he  would  be  very  much 
interested,  but  if  he  saw  mine  he  might  say,  'That 
is  my  fault!'" 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  her  colour  rising  quickly;  she 
looked  troubled  for  a  second,  then  her  eyes  twinkled. 
"You're  not  going  to  let  my  work  make  a  difference 
between  us,  are  you?" 

"I'll  even  try  to  look  at  it  from  your  own  point 
of  view,"  I  answered,  stepping  back  several  yards 
to  see  it  better,  though  I  should  have  had  to  retire 
about  a  quarter  of  the  length  of  a  city  block  to  see 
it  quite  from  her  own  point  of  view. 

She  moved  with  me,  both  of  us  walking  backward. 
I  began: 


210  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

"For  a  day  like  this,  with  all  the  colour  in  the 
trees  themselves  and  so  very  little  in  the  air — 

There  came  an  interruption,  a  voice  of  unpleasant 
and  wiry  nasality,  speaking  from  behind  us. 

"Well,  well!"  it  said.    "So  here  we  are  again!" 

I  faced  about  and  beheld,  just  emerged  from  a 
by-path,  a  fox-faced  young  man  whose  light,  well- 
poised  figure  was  jauntily  clad  in  gray  serge,  with 
scarlet  waistcoat  and  tie,  white  shoes  upon  his  feet, 
and  a  white  hat,  gaily  beribboned,  upon  his  head. 
A  recollection  of  the  dusky  road  and  a  group  of 
people  about  Pere  Baudry's  lamplit  door  flickered 
across  my  mind. 

"The  historical  tourist!"  I  exclaimed.  ''The 
highly  pedestrian  tripper  from  Trouville!" 

"You  got  me  right,  m'dear  friend,"  he  replied 
with  condescension;  "I  rec'leck  meetin'  you  perfect." 

"And  I  was  interested  to  learn,"  said  I,  care- 
fully observing  the  effect  of  my  words  upon  him, 
"that  you  had  been  to  Les  Trois  Pigeons  after  all. 
Perhaps  I  might  put  it,  you  had  been  through 
Les  Trois  Pigeons,  for  the  maitre  d'hdtel  informed 
me  you  had  investigated  every  corner — that  wasn't 
locked." 

"Sure,"  he  returned,  with  rather  less  embarrass- 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

ment  than  a  brazen  Vishnu  would  have  exhibited 
under  the  same  circumstances.  "He  showed  me 
what  pitchers  they  was  in  your  studio.  I'll  luk 
'em  over  again  fer  ye  one  of  these  days.  Some 
of  'em  was  right  gud." 

"You  will  be  visiting  near  enough  for  me  to  avail 
myself  of  the  opportunity?" 

"Right  in  the  Pigeon  House,  m'friend.  I've  just 
come  down  t'putt  in  a  few  days  there,"  he  responded 
coolly.  "They's  a  young  feller  in  this  neighbour- 
hood I  take  a  kind  o'  fam'ly  interest  in." 

"Who  is  that?"  I  asked  quickly. 

For  answer  he  produced  the  effect  of  a  laugh 
by  widening  and  lifting  one  side  of  his  mouth, 
leaving  the  other,  meantime,  rigid. 

"Don'  lemme  int'rup'  the  conv'sation  with  yer 
lady-friend,"  he  said  winningly.  "What  they  call 
'talkin'  High  Arts,'  wasn't  it?  I'd  like  to  hear 


aome." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

MISS  ELLIOTT'S  expression,  when  I 
turned  to  observe  the  effect  of  the  in- 
truder upon  her,  was  found  to  be  one  of 
brilliant  delight.  With  glowing  eyes,  her  lips  parted 
in  a  breathless  ecstasy,  she  gazed  upon  the  new- 
comer, evidently  fearing  to  lose  a  syllable  that  fell 
from  his  lips.  Moving  closer  to  me  she  whispered 
urgently: 

"Keep  him.    Oh,  keep  him!" 

To  detain  him,  for  a  time  at  least,  was  my  in- 
tention, though  my  motive  was  not  merely  to  afford 
her  pleasure.  The  advent  of  the  young  man  had 
produced  a  singularly  disagreeable  impression  upon 
me,  quite  apart  from  any  antagonism  I  might  have 
felt  toward  him  as  a  type.  Strange  suspicions  leaped 
into  my  mind,  formless — in  the  surprise  of  the 
moment — but  rapidly  groping  toward  definite  out- 
line; and  following  hard  upon  them  crept  a  tingling 
apprehension,  The  reappearance  of  this  rattish 
youth,  casual  as  was  the  air  with  which  he  strove 
to  invest  it,  began  to  assume,  for  me,  the  character 

212 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN  213 

of  a  theatrical  entrance  of  unpleasant  portent — a 
suggestion  just  now  enhanced  by  an  absurdly  obvious 
notion  of  his  own  that  he  was  enacting  a  part. 
This  was  written  all  over  him,  most  legibly  in  his 
attitude  of  the  knowing  amateur,  as  he  surveyed 
Miss  Elliott's  painting  patronisingly,  his  head  on 
one  side,  his  cane  in  the  crook  of  his  elbows  behind 
his  back,  and  his  body  teetering  genteelly  as  he 
shifted  his  weight  from  his  toes  to  his  heels  and 
back  again,  nodding  meanwhile  a  slight  but  judicial 
approbation. 

"Now,  about  how  much,"  he  said  slowly,  "would 
you  expec'  t'  git  f  r  a  pitcher  that  size?" 

"It  isn't  mine,"  I  informed  him. 

"You  don't  tell  me  it's  the  little  lady's— what?" 
He  bowed  genially  and  favoured  Miss  Elliott  with 
a  stare  of  warm  admiration.  "Pretty  a  thing  as 
I  ever  see,"  he  added. 

"Oh,"  she  cried  with  an  ardour  that  choked  her 
slightly.  "Thank  you!" 

"Oh,  I  meant  the  pitcher!"  he  said  hastily,  evi- 
dently nonplussed  by  a  gratitude  so  fervent. 

The  incorrigible  damsel  cast  down  her  eyes  in 
modesty.  "And  I  had  hoped,"  she  breathed,  "some- 
thing so  different!" 


THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

I  could  not  be  certain  whether  or  not  he  caught 
the  whisper;  I  thought  he  did.  At  all  events,  the 
surface  of  his  easy  assurance  appeared  somewhat 
disarranged;  and,  perhaps  to  restore  it  by  perform- 
ing the  rites  of  etiquette,  he  said: 

"Well,  I  expec'  the  smart  thing  now  is  to  pass 
the  cards,  but  mine's  in  my  grip  an'  it  ain't  un- 
packed yet.  The  name  you'd  see  on  'em  is  Oil 
Poicy." 

"Oil  Poicy,"  echoed  Miss  Elliott,  turning  to  me 
in  genuine  astonishment. 

"Mr.  Earl  Percy,"  I  translated. 

"Oh,  rapturous!"  she  cried,  her  face  radiant. 
"And  won't  Mr.  Percy  give  us  his  opinion  of  my 
Art?" 

Mr.  Percy  was  in  doubt  how  to  take  her  enthu- 
siasm; he  seemed  on  the  point  of  turning  surly,  and 
hesitated,  while  a  sharp  vertical  line  appeared  on 
his  small  forehead;  but  he  evidently  concluded, 
after  a  deep  glance  at  her,  that  if  she  was  making 
game  of  him  it  was  in  no  ill-natured  spirit — nay, 
I  think  that  for  a  few  moments  he  suspected  her 
liveliness  to  be  some  method  of  her  own  for  the 
incipient  stages  of  a  flirtation. 

Finally  he  turned  again  to  the  easel,  and  as  he 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 

examined  the  painting  thereon  at  closer  range, 
amazement  overspread  his  features.  However,  pull- 
ing himself  together,  he  found  himself  able  to  reply 
—and  with  great  gallantry: 

"Well,  on'y  t'  think  them  little  hands  cud  'a' 
done  all  that  rough  woik!" 

The  unintended  viciousness  of  this  retort  produced 
an  effect  so  marked,  that,  except  for  my  growing 
uneasiness,  I  might  have  enjoyed  her  expression. 

As  it  was,  I  saved  her  face  by  entering  into 
the  conversation  with  a  question,  which  I  put 
quickly: 

"You  intend  pursuing  your  historical  researches 
in  the  neighborhood?" 

The  facial  contortion  which  served  him  for  a 
laugh,  and  at  the  same  time  as  a  symbol  of  unfathom- 
able reserve,  was  repeated,  accompanied  by  a  jocose 
manifestation,  in  the  nature  of  a  sharp  and  taunting 
cackle,  which  seemed  to  indicate  a  conviction  that 
he  was  getting  much  the  best  of  it  in  some  conflict 
of  wits. 

"Them  fairy  tales  I  handed  you  about  ole  Jeanne 
d'Arc  and  William  the  Conker,"  he  said,  "say,  they 
must  'a'  made  you  sore  after-woicfo/" 

"On  the  contrary,  I  was  much  interested  in  every- 


216  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

thing  pertaining  to  your  too  brief  visit,"  I  returned; 
"I  am  even  more  so  now." 

"Well,  m'friend" — he  shot  me  a  sidelong,  dis- 
trustful glance — "keep  yer  eyes  open." 

"That  is  just  the  point!"  I  laughed,  with  inten- 
tional significance,  for  I  meant  to  make  Mr.  Percy 
talk  as  much  as  I  could.  To  this  end,  remember- 
ing that  specimens  of  his  kind  are  most  indiscreet 
when  carefully  enraged,  I  added,  simulating  his 
own  manner: 

"Eyes  open—and  doors  locked!    What?" 

At  this  I  heard  a  gasp  of  astonishment  from  Miss 
Elliott,  who  must  have  been  puzzled  indeed;  but  I 
was  intent  upon  the  other.  He  proved  perfectly 
capable,  of  being  insulted. 

"I  guess  they  ain't  much  need  o'  lockin'  your 
door,"  he  retorted  darkly;  "not  from  what  I  saw 
when  I  was  jn  your  studio!"  He  should  have  stopped 
there,  for  the  hit  was  palpable  and  justified;  but  in 
his  resentment  he  overdid  it.  "You  needn't  be 
scared  of  anybody's  cartin*  off  them  pitchers,  young 
feller!  Whoosh!  An'  f'm  the  Inks  of  the  clones  I  saw 
hangin'  on  the  wall,"  he  continued,  growing  more  net- 
tled as  I  smiled  cheerfully  upon  him,  "I  don'  b'lieve 
you  gut  any  worries  comin'  about  them,  neither'" 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN  217 

"I  suppose  our  tastes  are  different,"  I  said, 
letting  my  smile  broaden.  "There  might  be  protec- 
tion in  that." 

His  stare  at  me  was  protracted  to  an  unseemly 
length  before  the  sting  of  this  remark  reached  him; 
it  penetrated  finally,  however,  and  in  his  sharp 
change  of  posture  there  was  a  lightning  flicker  of 
the  experienced  boxer;  but  he  checked  the  impulse, 
and  took  up  the  task  of  obliterating  me  in  another 
way. 

"As  I  tell  the  little  dame  here,"  he  said,  pitching 
his  voice  higher  and  affecting  the  plaintive,  "I  make 
no  passes  at  a  friend  o'  her — not  in  front  o*  her, 
anyways.  But  when  it  comes  to  these  here  ole, 
ancient  curiosities" — he  cackled  again,  loudly — 
"well,  I  guess  them  clo'es  I  see,  that  day,  kin  hand 
it  out  t'  anything  they  got  in  the  museums!  'Look 
here/  I  says  to  the  waiter,  'these  must  be'n  left 
over  f'm  ole  Jeanne  d'Arc  herself,'  I  says.  'Talk 
about  yer  relics,'  I  says.  Whoosh!  I'd  like  t'  died!" 
He  laughed  violently,  and  concluded  by  turning 
upon  me  with  a  contemptuous  flourish  of  his  stick. 
"You  think  I  d'know  what  makes  you  so  raw?" 

The  form  of  repartee  necessary  to  augment  his 
ill  humour  was,  of  course,  a  matter  of  simple  mechan- 


218  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

ism  for  one  who  had  not  entirely  forgotten  his 
student  days  in  the  Quarter;  and  I  delivered  it 
airily,  though  I  shivered  inwardly  that  Miss  Elliott 
should  hear. 

"Everything  will  be  all  right  if,  when  you  dine 
at  the  inn,  you'll  sit  with  your  back  toward  me." 

To  my  shamed  surprise,  this  roustabout  wit  drew 
a  nervous,  silvery  giggle  from  her;  and  that  com- 
pleted the  work  with  Mr.  Percy,  whose  face  grew 
scarlet  with  anger. 

"You're  a  hot  one,  you  are!"  he  sneered,  with 
shocking  bitterness.  "You're  quite  the  teaser,  ain't 
ye,  s'long's  yer  lady-friend  is  lukkiV  on!  I  guess 
they'll  be  a  few  surprises  comin'  your  way,  before 
long.  P'raps  I  cudn't  give  ye  one  now  'f  I  had  a 
mind  to." 

"Pshaw,"  I  laughed,  and,  venturing  at  hazard, 
said,  "I  know  all  you  know!" 

"Oh,  you  do!"  he  cried  scornfully.  "I  reckon 
you  might  set  up  an'  take  a  little  notice,  though, 
if  you  knowed  'at  I  know  all  you  know!" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it!" 

"No?  Maybe  you  think  I  don't  know  what  makes 
you  so  raw  with  me?  Maybe  you  think  I  don't 
know  who  ye've  got  so  thick  with  at  this  here 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN  219 

Pigeon  House;  maybe  you  think  I  don't  know  who 
them  people  are!" 

"No,  you  don't.  You  have  learned,"  I  said, 
trying  to  control  my  excitement,  "nothing!  Who- 
ever hired  you  for  a  spy  lost  the  money.  You  don't 
know  anything!" 

"I  don't!"  And  with  that  his  voice  went  to  a 
half -shriek.  "Maybe  you  think  I'm  down  here 
f'r  my  health;  maybe  you  think  I  come  out  f'r  a 
pleasant  walk  in  the  woods  right  now;  maybe  you 
think  I  ain't  seen  no  other  lady-friend  o'  yours 
besides  this'n  to-day,  and  maybe  I  didn't  see  who 
was  with  her — yes,  an'  maybe  you  think  I  d'know 
no  other  times  he's  be'n  with  her.  Maybe  you 
think  I  ain't  be'n  layin'  low  over  at  Dives!  Maybe 
I  don't  know  a  few  real  names  in  this  neighbour- 
hood! Oh,  no,  maybe  not!" 

"You  know  what  the  maitre  d'hotel  told  you; 
nothing  more." 

"How  about  the  name — Oliver  Saffren?"  he  cried 
fiercely,  and  at  last,  though  I  had  expected  it,  I 
uttered  an  involuntary  exclamation. 

"How  about  it?"  he  shouted,  advancing  toward 
me  triumphantly,  shaking  his  forefinger  in  my  face. 
"Hey?  That  stings  some,  does  it?  Sounds  kind  o' 


220  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

like  a  false  name,  does  it?  Got  ye  where  the  hair 
is  shout,  that  time,  didn't  I?" 

"Speaking  of  names,"  I  retorted,  "  'Oil  Poicy' 
doesn't  seem  to  ring  particularly  true  to  me!" 

"It'll  be  gud  enough  fer  you,  young  feller,"  he 
responded  angrily.  "It  may  belong  t'  me,  an'  then 
again,  it  maybe  don't.  It  ain'  gunna  git  me  in  no 
trouble;  I'll  luk  out  f'r  that.  Your  side's  where 
the  trouble  is;  that's  what's  eatin'  into  you.  An* 
I'll  tell  you  flat-foot,  your  gittin'  rough  'ith  me 
and  playin'  Charley  the  Show-Off  in  front  o'  yer 
lady-friends'll  all  go  down  in  the  bill.  These  people 
ye've  got  so  chummy  with — they'll  pay  f'r  it  all 
right,  don't  you  shed  no  tears  over  that!" 

"You  couldn't  by  any  possibility,"  I  said  deliber- 
ately, with  as  much  satire  as  I  could  command,  "you 
couldn't  possibly  mean  that  any  sum  of  mere 
money  might  be  a  salve  for  the  injuries  my  unkind 
words  have  inflicted?" 

Once  more  he  seemed  upon  the  point  of  destroying 
me  physically,  but,  with  a  slight  shudder,  controlled 
himself.  Stepping  close  to  me,  he  thrust  his  head 
forward  and  measured  the  emphases  of  his  speech 
by  his  right  forefinger  upon  my  shoulder,  as  he 
said: 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN  221 

"You  paint  this  in  yer  pitchers,  m'  dear  friend; 
they's  jest  as  much  law  in  this  country  as  they  is 
on  the  corner  o'  Twenty-thoid  Street  an'  Fif 
Avenoo!  You  keep  out  the  way  of  it,  or  you'll 
git  runned  over!" 

Delivering  a  final  tap  on  my  shoulder  as  a  last 
warning,  he  wheeled  deftly  upon  his  heel,  addressed 
Miss  Elliott  briefly,  "Glad  t'  know  you,  lady,"  and 
striking  into  the  by-path  by  which  he  had  ap- 
proached us,  was  soon  lost  to  sight. 

The  girl  faced  me  excitedly.  "What  is  it?"  she 
cried.  "It  seemed  to  me  you  insulted  him  de- 
liberately  " 

"I  did." 

"You  wanted  to  make  him  angry?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh!  I  thought  so!"  she  exclaimed  breathlessly. 
"I  knew  there  was  something  serious  underneath. 
It's  about  Mr.  Saffren?" 

"It  is  serious  indeed,  I  fear,"  I  said,  and  turning 
to  my  own  easel,  began  to  get  my  traps  together. 
"I'll  tell  you  the  little  I  know,  because  I  want  you 
to  tell  Mrs.  Harman  what  has  just  happened,  and 
you'll  be  able  to  do  it  better  if  you  understand  what 
is  understandable  about  the  rest  of  it." 


222  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

"You  mean  you  wouldn't  tell  me  so  that  I  could 
understand  for  myself?"  There  was  a  note  of 
genuine  grieved  reproach  in  her  voice.  "Ah,  then 
I've  made  you  think  me  altogether  a  hare- 
brain!" 

"I  haven't  time  to  tell  you  what  I  think  of  you," 
I  said  brusquely,  and,  strangely  enough,  it  seemed 
to  please  her.  But  I  paid  little  attention  to  that, 
continuing  quickly:  "When  Professor  Keredec  and 
Mr.  Saffren  came  to  Les  Trois  Pigeons,  they  were 
so  careful  to  keep  out  of  everybody's  sight  that 
one  might  have  suspected  that  they  were  in  hiding 
— and,  in  fact,  I'm  sure  that  they  were — though, 
as  time  passed  and  nothing  alarming  happened, 
they've  felt  reassured  and  allowed  themselves  more 
liberty.  It  struck  me  that  Keredec  at  first  dreaded 
that  they  might  be  traced  to  the  inn,  and  I'm 
afraid  his  fear  was  justified,  for  one  night,  before 
I  came  to  know  them,  I  met  Mr.  'Percy'  on  the 
road;  he'd  visited  Madame  Brossard's  and  pumped 
Amedee  dry,  but  clumsily  tried  to  pretend  to  me 
that  he  had  not  been  there  at  all.  At  the  time, 
I  did  not  connect  him  even  remotely  with  Professor 
Keredec's  anxieties.  I  imagined  he  might  have  an 
eye  to  the  spoons;  but  it's  as  ridiculous  to  think 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 

him  a  burglar  as  it  would  be  to  take  him  for  a 
detective.  What  he  is,  or  what  he  has  to  do  with 
Mr.  Saffren,  I  can  guess  no  more  than  I  can  guess 
the  cause  of  Keredec's  fears,  but  the  moment  I  saw 
him  to-day,  saw  that  he'd  come  back,  I  knew  it 
was  that,  and  tried  to  draw  him  out.  You  heard 
what  he  said;  there's  no  doubt  that  Saffren  stands 
in  danger  of  some  kind.  It  may  be  inconsiderable, 
or  even  absurd,  but  it's  evidently  imminent,  and  no 
matter  what  it  is,  Mrs.  Harman  must  be  kept 
out  of  it.  I  want  you  to  see  her  as  soon  as  you  can 
and  ask  her  from  me — no,  persuade  her  yourself 
— not  to  leave  Quesnay  for  a  day  or  two.  I  mean, 
that  she  absolutely  must  not  meet  Mr.  Saffren 
again  until  we  know  what  all  this  means.  Will 
you  do  it?" 

"That  I  will!"  And  she  began  hastily  to  get 
her  belongings  in  marching  order.  "I'll  do  any- 
thing in  the  world  you'll  let  me — and  oh,  I  hope 
they  can't  do  anything  to  poor,  poor  Mr. 
Saffren!" 

"Our  sporting  friend  had  evidently  seen  him  with 
Mrs.  Harman  to-day,"  I  said.  "Do  you  know  if 
they  went  to  the  beach  again?" 

"I  only  know  she  meant  to  meet  him — but  she 


THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

told  me  she'd  be  back  at  the  chateau  by  four.     If 
I  start  now 

"Wasn't  the  phaeton  to  be  sent  to  the  inn  for 
you?" 

"Not  until  six,"  she  returned  briskly,  folding  her 
easel  and  strapping  it  to  her  camp-stool  with  pre- 
cision. "Isn't  it  shorter  by  the  woods?" 

"You've  only  to  follow  this  path  to  the  second 
crossing  and  then  turn  to  the  right,"  I  responded. 
"I  shall  hurry  back  to  Madame  Brossard's  to 
see  Keredec — and  here" — I  extended  my  hand 
toward  her  traps,  of  which,  in  a  neatly  practical 
fashion,  she  had  made  one  close  pack — "let  me 
have  your  things,  and  I'll  take  care  of  them  at 
the  inn  for  you.  They're  heavy,  and  it's  a  long 
trudge." 

"You  have  your  own  to  carry,"  she  answered, 
swinging  the  strap  over  her  shoulder.  "It's  some- 
thing of  a  walk  for  you,  too." 

"No,  no,  let  me  have  them,"  I  protested,  for  the 
walk  before  her  was  long  and  the  things  would  be 
heavy  indeed  before  it  ended. 

"Go  your  ways,"  she  laughed,  and  as  my  hand 
still  remained  extended  she  grasped  it  with  her  own 
and  gave  it  a  warm  and  friendly  shake.  "Hurry!" 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN  225 

And  with  an  optimism  which  took  my  breath,  she 
said,  "I  know  you  can  make  it  come  out  all  right! 
Besides,  I'll  help  you!" 

With  that  she  turned  and  started  manfully  upon 
her  journey.  I  stared  after  her  for  a  moment  or 
more,  watching  the  pretty  brown  dress  flashing  in 
and  out  of  shadow  among  the  ragged  greeneries, 
shafts  of  sunshine  now  and  then  flashing  upon  her 
hair.  Then  I  picked  up  my  own  pack  and  set  out 
for  the  inn. 

Every  one  knows  that  the  more  serious  and  urgent 
the  errand  a  man  may  be  upon,  the  more  incongru- 
ous are  apt  to  be  the  thoughts  that  skip  into  his 
mind.  As  I  went  through  the  woods  that  day, 
breathless  with  haste  and  curious  fears,  my  brain 
^became  suddenly,  unaccountably  busy  with  a  dream 
I  had  had,  two  nights  before.  I  had  not  recalled 
this  dream  on  waking:  the  recollection  of  it  came 
to  me  now  for  the  first  time.  It  was  a  usual  enough 
dream,  wandering  and  unlifelike,  not  worth  the 
telling;  and  I  had  been  thinking  so  constantly  of 
Mrs.  Harman  that  there  was  nothing  extraordinary 
in  her  worthless  ex-husband's  being  part  of  it. 

And  yet,  looking  back  upon  that  last,  hurried  walk 


226  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

of  mine  through  the  forest,  I  see  how  strange  it 
was  that  I  could  not  quit  remembering  how  in  my 
dream  I  had  gone  motoring  up  Mount  Pilatus  with 
the  man  I  had  seen  so  pitiably  demolished  on  the 
Versailles  road,  two  years  before — Larrabee  Har- 
man. 


CHAPTER  XVH 

KEREDEC  was  alone  in  his  salon,  extended 
at  ease  upon  a  long  chair,  an  ottoman  and 
a  stool,  when  I  burst  in  upon  him;  a 
portentous  volume  was  in  his  lap,  and  a  prolific 
pipe,  smoking  up  from  his  great  cloud  of  beard, 
gave  the  final  reality  to  the  likeness  he  thus  pre- 
sented of  a  range  of  hills  ending  in  a  volcano.  But 
he  rolled  the  book  cavalierly  to  the  floor,  limbered 
up  by  sections  to  receive  me,  and  offered  me  a  hearty 
welcome. 

"Ha,  my  dear  sir,"  he  cried,  "you  take  pity  on 
the  lonely  Keredec;  you  make  him  a  visit.  I  could 
not  wish  better  for  myself.  We  shall  have  a  good 
smoke  and  a  good  talk." 

"You  are  improved  to-day?"  I  asked,  it  may  be 
a  little  slyly. 

"Improve?"  he  repeated  inquiringly. 

"Your  rheumatism,  I  mean." 

"Ha,  yes;  that  rheumatism!"  he  shouted,  and 
throwing  back  his  head,  rocked  the  room  with  sud- 
den laughter.  "Hew!  But  it  is  gone — almost! 

227 


THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

Oh,  I  am  much  better,  and  soon  I  shall  be  able 
to  go  in  the  woods  again  with  my  boy."  He  pushed 
a  chair  toward  me.  "Come,  light  your  cigar;  he 
will  not  return  for  an  hour  perhaps,  and  there  is 
plenty  of  time  for  the  smoke  to  blow  away.  So! 
It  is  better.  Now  we  shall  talk." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I  wanted  to  talk  with  you." 

"That  is  a — what  you  call? — ha,  yes,  a  coinci- 
dence," he  returned,  stretching  himself  again  in  the 
long  chair,  "a  happy  coincidence;  for  I  have  wished 
a  talk  with  you;  but  you  are  away  so  early  for  all 
day,  and  in  the  evening  Oliver,  he  is  always  here." 

"I  think  what  I  wanted  to  talk  about  concerns 
him  particularly." 

"Yes?"  The  professor  leaned  forward,  looking 
at  me  gravely.  "That  is  another  coincidence.  But 
you  shall  speak  first.  Commence  then." 

"T  feel  that  you  know  me  at  least  well  enough," 
I  \>t?gan  rather  hesitatingly,  "to  be  sure  that  I 
would  not,  for  the  world,  make  any  effort  to  in- 
trude in  your  affairs,  or  Mr.  Saffren's,  and  that  I 
would  not  force  your  confidence  in  the  remotest — 

"No,  no,  no!"  he  interrupted.  "Please  do  not 
fear  I  shall  misinterpretate  whatever  you  will  say. 
You  are  our  friend.  We  know  it." 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN  229 

"Very  well,"  I  pursued;  "then  I  speak  with  no 
fear  of  offending.  When  you  first  came  to  the  inn 
I  couldn't  help  seeing  that  you  took  a  great  many 
precautions  for  secrecy;  and  when  you  afterward 
explained  these  precautions  to  me  on  the  ground 
that  you  feared  somebody  might  think  Mr.  Saffren 
not  quite  sane,  and  that  such  an  impression  might 
injure  him  later — well,  I  could  not  help  seeing 
that  your  explanation  did  not  cover  all  the  ground." 

"It  is  true — it  did  not."  He  ran  his  huge  hand 
through  the  heavy  white  waves  of  his  hair,  and 
shook  his  head  vigorously.  "No;  I  knew  it,  my 
dear  sir,  I  knew  it  well.  But,  what  could  I  do? 
I  would  not  have  telled  my  own  mother!  This 
much  I  can  say  to  you:  we  came  here  at  a  risk, 
but  I  thought  that  with  great  care  it  might  be  made 
little.  And  I  thought  a  great  good  thing  might  be 
accomplish  if  we  should  come  here,  something  so 
fine,  so  wonderful,  that  even  if  the  danger  had  been 
great  I  would  have  risked  it.  I  will  tell  you  a  little 
more:  I  think  that  great  thing  is  being  accomplish!" 
Here  he  rose  to  his  feet  excitedly  and  began  to  pace 
the  room  as  he  talked,  the  ancient  floor  shaking 
with  his  tread.  "I  think  it  is  done!  And  ha!  my 
dear  sir,  if  it  should  be,  this  big  Keredec  will  not 


230  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

have  lived  in  vain!  It  was  a  great  task  I  under- 
take with  my  young  man,  and  the  glory  to  see  it 
finish  is  almost  here.  Even  if  the  danger  should 
come,  the  thing  is  done,  for  all  that  is  real  and  has 
true  meaning  is  inside  the  soul!" 

"It  was  in  connection  with  the  risk  you  have 
mentioned  that  I  came  to  talk,"  I  returned  with 
some  emphasis,  for  I  was  convinced  of  the  reality 
of  Mr.  Earl  Percy  and  also  very  certain  that  he 
had  no  existence  inside  or  outside  a  soul.  "I  think 
it  necessary  that  you  should  know " 

But  the  professor  was  launched.  I  might  as  well 
have  swept  the  rising  tide  with  a  broom.  He  talked 
with  magnificent  vehemence  for  twenty  minutes,  his 
theme  being  some  theory  of  his  own  that  the  indi- 
viduality of  a  soul  is  immortal,  and  that  even  in 
perfection,  the  soul  cannot  possibly  merge  into  any 
Nirvana.  Meantime,  I  wondered  how  Mr.  Percy 
was  employing  his  time,  but  after  one  or  two  in- 
effectual attempts  to  interrupt,  I  gave  myself  tu 
silence  until  the  oration  should  be  concluded. 

"And  so  it  is  with  my  boy,"  he  proclaimed,  com- 
ing at  last  to  the  case  in  hand.  "The  spirit  of 
him,  the  real  Oliver  Saffren,  that  has  never  change! 
The  outside  of  him,  those  thing  that  belong  to  him, 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN  231 

like  his  memory,  they  have  change,  but  not  himself, 
for  himself  is  eternal  and  unchangeable.  I  have 
taught  him,  yes;  I  have  helped  him  get  the  small 
things  we  can  add  to  our  possession — a  little  knowl- 
edge, maybe,  a  little  power  of  judgment.  But,  my 
dear  sir,  I  tell  you  that  such  things  are  only  pos- 
sessions of  a  man.  They  are  not  the  man!  All 
that  a  man  is  or  ever  shall  be,  he  is  when  he  is  a 
baby.  So  with  Oliver;  he  had  lived  a  little  while, 
twenty-six  years,  perhaps,  when  pft — like  that! — 
he  became  almost  as  a  baby  again.  He  could  re- 
member how  to  talk,  but  not  much  more.  He 
had  lost  his  belongings — they  were  gone  from  the 
lobe  of  the  brain  where  he  had  stored  them;  but 
he  was  not  gone,  no  part  of  the  real  himself  was 
lacking.  Then  presently  they  send  him  to  me  to 
make  new  his  belongings,  to  restore  his  possessions. 
Ha,  what  a  task!  To  take  him  with  nothing  in  the 
world  of  his  own  and  see  that  he  get  only  good 
possessions,  good  knowledge,  good  experience!  I 
took  him  to  the  mountains  of  the  Tyrol — two 
years — and  there  his  body  became  strong  and  splen- 
did while  his  brain  was  taking  in  the  stores.  It 
was  quick,  for  his  brain  had  retained  some  habits; 
it  was  not  a  baby's  brain,  and  some  small  part  of 


THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

its  old  stores  had  not  been  lost.  But  if  anything 
useless  or  bad  remain,  we  empty  it  out — I  and 
those  mountain5  with  their  pure  air.  Now,  I  say 
he  is  all  good  and  the  work  was  good;  I  am  proud! 
But  I  wish  to  restore  all  that  was  good  in  his  life; 
your  Keredec  is  something  of  a  poet. — You  may* 
put  it:  much  the  old  fool!  And  for  that  greates' 
restoration  of  all  I  have  brought  my  boy  back  to 
France;  since  it  was  necessary.  It  was  a  madness, 
and  I  thank  the  good  God  I  was  mad  enough  to 
do  it.  I  cannot  tell  you  yet,  my  dear  sir;  bui>  you 
shall  see,  you  shall  see  what  the  folly  of  that  old 
Keredec  has  done!  You  shall  see,  you  shall — and 
I  promise  it — what  a  Paradise,  when  the  good  God 
helps,  an  old  fool's  dream  can  make!" 

A  half-light  had  broken  upon  me  as  he  talked, 
pacing  the  floor,  thundering  his  psean  «of  triumph, 
his  Titanic  gestures  bruising  the  harmless  air.  Only 
one  explanation,  incredible,  but  possible,  sufficed. 
Anything  was  possible,  I  thought — anything  was 
probable — with  this  dreamer  whom  the  trump  of 
J?ame,  executing  a  whimsical  fantasia,  proclaimed  a 
man  of  science! 

"By  the  wildest  chance,"  I  gasped,  "y°u  don't 
mean  that  you  wanted  him  to  fall  in  love " 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN  233 

He  had  reached  the  other  end  of  the  room,  but 
at  this  he  whirled  about  on  me,  his  laughter  rolling 
out  again,  till  it  might  have  been  heard  at  Pere 
Baudry's. 

"Ha,  my  dear  sir,  you  have  said  it!  But  you 
Toiew  it;  you  told  him  to  come  to  me  and  tell 


me.'.' 


"But  I  mean  that  you — unless  I  utterly  mis- 
understand— you  seem  to  imply  that  you  had 
selected  some  one  now  in  France  whom  you  planned 
that  he  should  care  for — that  you  had  selected  the 
lady  whom  you  know  as  Madame  d'Armand." 

"Again,"  he  shouted,  "you  have  said  it!" 

"Professor  Keredec,"  I  returned,  with  asperity, 
"I  have  no  idea  how  you  came  to  conceive 
such  a  preposterous  scheme,  but  I  agree  heartily 
that  the  word  for  it  is  madness.  In  the  first 
place',  I  must  tell  you  that  her  name  is  not  even 
d'Armand "  , 

"My  dear  sir,  I  know.  It  was  the  mistake  of 
that  absurd  Amedee.  She  is  Mrs.  Harman." 

"You  knew  it?"  I  cried,  hopelessly  confused. 
"But  Oliver  still  speaks  of  her  as  Madame  d'Ar- 
mand." 

"He  does  not  know.     She  has  not  told  him." 


234  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

"But  why  haven't  you  told  him?" 

"Ha,  that  is  a  story,  a  poem,"  he  cried,  beginning 
to  pace  the  floor  again — "a  ballad  as  old  as  the 
oldest  of  Provence!  There  is  a  reason,  my  dear 
sir,  which  I  cannot  tell  you,  but  it  lies  within  the 
romance  of  what  you  agree  is  my  madness.  Some 
day,  I  hope,  you  shall  understand  and  applaud! 
In  the  meantime— 

"In  the  meantime,"  I  said  sharply,  as  he  paused 
for  breath,  "there  is  a  keen-faced  young  man  who 
took  a  room  in  the  inn  this  morning  and  who  has 
come  to  spy  upon  you,  I  believe." 

"What  is  it  you  say?" 

He  came  to  a  sudden  stop. 

I  had  not  meant  to  deliver  my  information  quite 
so  abruptly,  but  there  was  no  help  for  it  now,'  and  I 
repeated  the  statement,  giving  him  a  terse  account 
of  my  two  encounters  with  the  rattish  youth,  and 
adding : 

"He  seemed  to  be  certain  that  'Oliver  Saffren' 
is  an  assumed  name,  and  he  made  a  threatening 
reference  to  the  laws  of  France." 

The  effect  upon  Keredec  was  a  very  distinct 
pallor.  He  faced  me  silently  until  I  had  finished, 
then  in  a  voice  grown  suddenly  husky,  asked: 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN  235 

"Do  you  think  he  came  back  to  the  inn?  Is 
he  here  now?" 

"I  do  not  know." 

"We  must  learn;  I  must  know  that,  at  once.'* 
And  he  went  to  the  door. 

"Let  me  go  instead,"  I  suggested. 

"It  can't  make  little  difference  if  he  see  me," 
said  the  professor,  swallowing  with  difficulty  and 
displaying,  as  he  turned  to  me,  a  look  of  such  pro- 
found anxiety  that  I  was  as  sorry  for  him  now  as 
I  had  been  irritated  a  few  minutes  earlier  by  his 
galliard  air-castles.  "I  do  not  know  this  man, 
nor  does  he  know  me,  but  I  have  fear" — his  beard 
moved  as  though  his  chin  were  trembling — "I  have 
fear  that  I  know  his  employers.  Still,  it  may  be 
better  if  you  go.  Bring  somebody  here  that  we 
can  ask." 

"Shall  I  find  Amedee?" 

"No,  no,  no!  That  babbler?  Find  Madame 
Brossard." 

I  stepped  out  to  the  gallery,  to  discover  Madame 
Brossard  emerging  from  a  door  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  courtyard;  Amedee,  Glouglou,  and  a 
couple  of  carters  deploying  before  her  with  some 
light  trunks  and  bags,  which  they  were  carrying 


236  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

into  the  passage  she  had  just  quitted.  I  summoned 
her  quietly;  she  came  briskly  up  the  steps  and  into 
the  room,  and  I  closed  the  door. 

"Madame  Brossard,"  said  the  professor,  "you 
have  a  new  client  to-day." 

"That  monsieur  who  arrived  this  morning,"  I 
suggested. 

"He  was  an  American,"  said  the  hostess,  knitting 
her  dark  brows — "but  I  do  not  think  that  he  was 
exactly  a  monsieur." 

"Bravo!"  I  murmured.  "That  sketches  a  like- 
ness. It  is  this  'Percy*  without  a  doubt." 

"That  is  it,"  she  returned.  "Monsieur  Poissy 
is  the  name  he  gave." 

"Is  he  at  the  inn  now?" 

"No,  monsieur,  but  two  friends  for  whom  he 
engaged  apartments  have  just  arrived." 

"Who  are  they?"  asked  Keredec  quickly. 

"It  is  a  lady  and  a  monsieur  from  Paris.  But 
not  married:  they  have  taken  separate  apartments 
and  she  has  a  domestic  with  her,  a  negress, 
Algerian." 

"What  are  their  names?" 

"It  is  not  ten  minutes  that  they  are  installed. 
They  have  not  given  me  their  names." 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN  237 

"What  is  the  lady's  appearance?" 

"Monsieur  the  Professor,"  replied  the  hostess 
demurely,  "she  is  not  beautiful." 

"But  what  is  she?"  demanded  Keredec  impa- 
tiently; and  it  could  be  seen  that  he  was  striving 
to  control  a  rising  agitation?  "Is  she  blonde?  Is 
she  brunette?  Is  she  young?  Is  she  old?  Is  she 
French,  English,  Spanish— 

"I  think,"  said  Madame  Brossard,  "I  think  one 
would  call  her  Spanish,  but  she  is  very  fat,  not 
young,  and  with  a  great  deal  too  much  rouge " 

She  stopped  with  an  audible  intake  of  breath, 
staring  at  my  friend's  white  face.  "Eh!  it  is  bad 
news?"  she  cried.  "And  when  one  has  been  so 
ill " 

Keredec  checked  her  with  an  imperious  gesture. 
"Monsieur  Saffren  and  I  leave  at  once,"  he  said. 
"I  shall  meet  him  on  the  road;  he  will  not  return 
to  the  inn.  We  go  to — to  Trouville.  See  that  no 
one  knows  that  we  have  gone  until  to-morrow,  if 
possible;  I  shall  leave  fees  for  the  servants  with 
you.  Go  now,  prepare  your  bill,  and  bring  it  to 
me  at  once.  I  shall  write  you  where  to  send  our 
trunks.  Quick!  And  you,  my  friend" — he  turned 
to  me  as  Madame  Brossard,  obviously  distressed 


238  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

and  frightened,  but  none  the  less  intelligent  for 
that,  skurried  away  to  do  his  bidding — "my  friend, 
will  you  help  us?  For  we  need  it!" 

"Anything  in  the  world!" 

"Go  to  Pere  Baudry's;  have  him  put  the  least 
tired  of  his  three  horses  to  his  lightest  cart  and 
wait  in  the  road  beyond  the  cottage.  Stand  in  the 
road  yourself  while  that  is  being  done.  Oliver  will 
come  that  way;  detain  him.  I  will  join  you  there; 
I  have  only  to  see  to  my  papers — at  the  most, 
twenty  minutes.  Go  quickly,  my  friend!" 

I  strode  to  the  door  and  out  to  the  gallery.  I 
was  half-way  down  the  steps  before  I  saw  that 
Oliver  Saffren  was  already  in  the  courtyard,  coming 
toward  me  from  the  archway  with  a  light  and 
buoyant  step. 

He  looked  up,  waving  his  hat  to  me,  his  face 
lighted  with  a  happiness  most  remarkable,  and 
brighter,  even,  than  the  strong,  midsummer  sun- 
shine flaming  over  him.  Dressed  in  white  as  he  was, 
and  with  the  air  of  victory  he  wore,  he  might  have 
been,  at  that  moment,  a  figure  from  some  marble 
triumph;  youthful,  conquering — crowned  with  the 
laurel. 

I  had  tune  only  to  glance   at  him,   to   "take" 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN  239 

him,  as  it  were,  between  two  shutter-flicks  of  the 
instantaneous  eyelid,  and  with  him,  the  courtyard 
flooded  with  sunshine,  the  figure  of  Madame  Bros- 
sard  emerging  from  her  little  office,  Amedee  coming 
from  the  kitchen  bearing  a  white-covered  tray,  and, 
entering  from  the  road,  upon  the  trail  of  Saffren 
but  still  in  the  shadow  of  the  archway,  the  discord- 
ant fineries  and  hatchet-face  of  the  ex-pedestrian 
and  tourist,  my  antagonist  of  the  forest. 

I  had  opened  my  mouth  to  call  a  warning. 

"Hurry"  was  the  word  I  would  have  said,  but 
it  stopped  at  "hur — ."  The  second  syllable  was 
never  uttered. 

There  came  a  violent  outcry,  raucous  and  shrill 
as  the  wail  of  a  captured  hen,  and  out  of  the  pas- 
sage across  the  courtyard  floundered  a  woman,  fan- 
tastically dressed  in  green  and  gold. 

Her  coarse  blue-black  hair  fell  dishevelled  upon 
her  shoulders,  from  which  her  gown  hung  precari- 
ously unfastened,  as  if  she  had  abandoned  her 
toilet  half-way.  She  was  abundantly  fat,  double- 
chinned,  coarse,  greasy,  smeared  with  blue  pen- 
cillings,  carmine,  enamel,  and  rouge. 

At  the  scream  Saffren  turned.  She  made  straight 
at  him,  crying  wildly: 


240  THE  GUEST  OF  QIJESNAY 

"Enfin!  Mon  mari,  mon  mari — c'est  moil  C'est 
ta  femme,  mon  cceur!" 

She  threw  herself  upon  him,  her  arms  about  his 
neck,  with  a  tropical  ferocity  that  was  a  very  parox- 
ysm of  triumph. 

"Embrasse  moi,  Larrabi!  Embrasse  moi!"  she  cried. 

Horrified,  outraged,  his  eyes  blazing,  he  flung  her 
off  with  a  violence  surpassing  her  own,  and  with 
loathing  unspeakable.  She  screamed  that  he  was 
killing  her,  calling  him  "husband,"  and  tried  to 
fasten  herself  upon  him  again.  But  he  leaped 
backward  beyond  the  reach  of  her  clutching  hands, 
and,  turning,  plunged  to  the  steps  and  staggered 
up  them,  the  woman  following. 

From  above  me  leaned  the  stricken  face  of  Ke- 
redec;  he  caught  Saffren  under  the  arm  and  half 
lifted  him  to  the  gallery,  while  she  strove  to  hold 
him  by  the  knees. 

"O  Christ!"  gasped  Saffren.    "Is  this  the  woman?" 

The  giant  swung  him  across  the  gallery  and  into 
the  open  door  with  one  great  sweep  of  the  arm, 
strode  in  after  him,  and  closed  and  bolted  the  door. 
The  woman  fell  in  a  heap  at  the  foot  of  the  steps, 
uttered  a  cracked  simulation  of  the  cry  of  a  broken 
heart. 


"Embrasse  moi,  Larrabi  !     Embrasse  moi ! "  she  cried 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN  241 

"Name  of  a  name  of  God!"  she  wailed.  "After 
all  these  years!  And  my  husband  strikes  me!" 

Then  it  was  that  what  had  been  in  my  mind  as 
a  monstrous  suspicion  became  a  certainty.  For  I 
recognised  the  woman;  she  was  Mariana — la  bella 
Mariana  la  Mursiana. 

If  I  had  ever  known  Larrabee  Harman,  if,  instead 
of  the  two  strange  glimpses  I  had  caught  of  him,  I 
had  been  familiar  with  his  gesture,  walk,  intonation 
—even,  perhaps,  if  I  had  ever  heard  his  voice — the 
truth  might  have  come  to  me  long  ago. 

Larrabee  Harman! 

"Oliver  Saffren"  was  Larrabee  Harman. 


CHAPTER  XVin 

I  DO  not  like  to  read  those  poets  who  write  of 
pain  as  if  they  loved  it;  the  study  of  suffering 
is  for  the  cold  analyst,  for  the  vivisectionist, 
for  those  who  may  transfuse  their  knowledge  of  it 
to  the  ultimate  good  of  mankind.  And  although  I 
am  so  heavily  endowed  with  curiosity  concerning 
the  people  I  find  about  me,  my  gift  (or  curse,  which- 
ever it  be)  knows  pause  at  the  gates  of  the  house  of 
calamity.  So,  if  it  were  possible,  I  would  not  speak 
of  the  agony  of  which  I  was  a  witness  that  night 
in  the  apartment  of  my  friends  at  Madame  Bros- 
sard's.  I  went  with  reluctance,  but  there  was  no 
choice.  Keredec  had  sent  for  me. 

.  .  .  When  I  was  about  fifteen,  a  boy  cousin  of 
mine,  several  years  younger,  terribly  injured  him- 
self on  the  Fourth  of  July;  and  I  sat  all  night  in 
the  room  with  him,  helping  his  mother.  Somehow 
he  had  learned  that  there  was  no  hope  of  saving  his 
sight;  he  was  an  imaginative  child  and  realised  the 
whole  meaning  of  the  catastrophe;  the  eternal  dark- 
ness. .  .  .  And  he  understood  that  the  thing  had 

242 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN  243 

been  done,  that  there  was  no  going  back  of  it.  This 
very  certainty  increased  the  intensity  of  his  rebellion 
a  thousandfold.  "I  will  have  nay  eyes !"  he  screamed. 
"I  will!  I  will!" 

Keredec  had  told  his  tragic  ward  too  little.  The 
latter  had  understood  but  vaguely  the  nature  of  the 
catastrophe  which  overhung  his  return  to  France, 
and  now  that  it  was  indeed  concrete  and  definite, 
the  guardian  was  forced  into  fuller  disclosures,  every 
word  making  the  anguish  of  the  listener  more  intol- 
erable. It  was  the  horizonless  despair  of  a  child; 
and  that  profound  protest  I  had  so  often  seen 
smouldering  in  his  eyes  culminated,  at  its  crisis,  in 
a  wild  flame  of  revolt.  The  shame  of  the  revelation 
passed  over  him;  there  was  nothing  of  the  disas- 
trous drunkard,  sober,  learning  what  he  had  done. 
To  him,  it  seemed  that  he  was  being  forced  to  suffer 
for  the  sins  of  another  man. 

"Do  you  think  that  you  can  make  me  believe  I 
did  this?"  he  cried.  "That  I  made  life  unbearable 
for  her,  drove  her  from  me,  and  took  this  hideous, 
painted  old  woman  in  her  place?  It's  a  lie.  You 
can't  make  me  believe  such  a  monstrous  lie  as  that! 
You  can't!  You  can't!" 


244  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

He  threw  himself  violently  upon  the  couch,  face 
downward,  shuddering  from  head  to  foot. 

"My  poor  boy,  it  is  the  truth,"  said  Keredec, 
kneeling  beside  him  and  putting  a  great  arm  across 
his  shoulders.  "It  is  what  a  thousand  men  are  doing 
this  night.  Nothing  is  more  common,  or  more  unex- 
plainable — or  more  simple.  Of  all  the  nations  it 
is  the  same,  wherever  life  has  become  artificial  and 
the  poor,  foolish  young  men  have  too  much  money 
and  nothing  to  do.  You  do  not  understand  it,  but 
our  friend  here,  and  I,  we  understand  because  we 
remember  what  we  have  been  seeing  all  our  life. 
You  say  it  is  not  you  who  did  such  crazy,  horrible 
things,  and  you  are  right.  When  this  poor  woman 
who  is  so  painted  and  greasy  first  caught  you,  when 
you  began  to  give  your  money  and  your  time  and 
your  life  to  her,  when  she  got  you  into  this  horrible 
marriage  with  her,  you  were  blind — you  went  stag- 
gering, in  a  bad  dream;  your  soul  hid  away,  far 
down  inside  you,  with  its  hands  over  its  face.  If  it 
could  have  once  stood  straight,  if  the  eyes  of  your 
body  could  have  once  been  clean  for  it  to  look  through, 
if  you  could  have  once  been  as  you  are  to-day,  or 
as  you  were  when  you  were  a  little  child,  you  would 
have  cry  out  with  horror  both  of  her  and  of  yourself, 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN  245 

as  you  do  now;  and  you  would  have  run  away  from 
her  and  from  everything  you  had  put  in  your  life. 
But,  in  your  suffering  you  must  rejoice:  the  triumph 
is  that  your  mind  hates  that  old  life  as  greatly  as 
your  soul  hates  it.  You  are  as  good  as  if  you  had 
never  been  the  wild  fellow — yes,  the  wicked  fellow — 
that  you  were.  For  a  man  who  shakes  off  his  sin 
is  clean;  he  stands  as  pure  as  if  he  had  never  sinned. 
But  though  his  emancipation  can  be  so  perfect, 
there  is  a  law  that  he  cannot  escape  from  the 
result  of  all  the  bad  and  foolish  things  he  has 
done,  for  every  act,  every  breath  you  draw,  is 
immortal,  and  each  has  a  consequence  that  is 
never  ending.  And  so,  now,  though  you  are  puri- 
fied, the  suffering  from  these  old  actions  is  here, 
and  you  must  abide  it.  Ah,  but  that  is  a  little 
thing,  nothing! — that  suffering — compared  to  what 
you  have  gained,  for  you  have  gained  your  own 
soul!" 

The  desperate  young  man  on  the  couch  answered 
only  with  the  sobbing  of  a  broken-hearted  child. 

I  came  back  to  my  pavilion  after  midnight,  but 
I  did  not  sleep,  though  I  lay  upon  my  bed  until 
dawn.  Then  I  went  for  a  long,  hard  walk,  break- 
fasted at  Dives,  and  begged  a  ride  back  to  Madame 


246  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

Brossard's  in  a  peasant's  cart  which  was  going  that 
way. 

I  found  George  Ward  waiting  for  me  on  the  little 
veranda  of  the  pavilion,  looking  handsomer  and  more 
prosperously  distinguished  and  distinguishedly  pros- 
perous and  generally  well-conditioned  than  ever — as: 
I  told  him. 

"I  have  some  news  for  you,"  he  said  after  the 
hearty  greeting — "an  announcement,  in  fact." 

"Wait!"  I  glanced  at  the  interested  attitude  of 
Mr.  Earl  Percy,  who  was  breakfasting  at  a  table 
significantly  near  the  gallery  steps,  and  led  the  way 
into  the  pavilion.  "You  may  as  well  not  tell  it  in 
the  hearing  of  that  young  man,"  I  said,  when  the 
door  was  closed.  "He  is  eccentric." 

"So  I  gathered,"  returned  Ward,  smiling,  "from 
his  attire.  But  it  really  wouldn't  matter  who 
heard  it.  Elizabeth's  going  to  marry  Cresson 
Ingle." 

"That  is  the  news — the  announcement — you  spoke 
of?" 

"Yes,  that  is  it." 

To  save  my  life  I  could  not  have  told  at  that 
moment  what  else  I  had  expected,  or  feared,  that  he 
might  say,  but  certainly  I  took  a  deep  breath  of 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN  247 

relief.  "I  am  very  glad,"  I  said.  "It  should  be  a 
happy  alliance." 

"On  the  whole,  I  think  it  will  be,"  he  returned 
thoughtfully.  "Ingle's  done  his  share  of  hard  living, 
and  I  once  had  a  notion" — he  glanced  smiling  at 
me — "well,  I  dare  say  you  know  my  notion.  But 
it  is  a  good  match  for  Elizabeth  and  not  without 
advantages  on  many  counts.  You  see,  it's  time  I 
married,  myself;  she  feels  that  very  strongly  and  I 
think  her  decision  to  accept  Ingle  is  partly  due  to 
her  wish  to  make  all  clear  for  a  new  mistress  of  my 
household, — though  that's  putting  it  in  a  rather 
grandiloquent  way."  He  laughed.  "And  as  you 
probably  guess,  I  have  an  idea  that  some  such 
arrangement  might  be  somewhere  on  the  wings  of 
the  wind  on  its  way  to  me,  before  long." 

He  laughed  again,  but  I  did  not,  and  noting  my 
silence  he  turned  upon  me  a  more  scrutinising  look 
than  he  had  yet  given  me,  and  said: 

"My  dear  fellow,  is  something  the  matter?  You 
look  quite  haggard.  You  haven't  been  ill?" 

"No,  I've  had  a  bad  night.    That's  all." 

"Oh,  I  heard  something  of  a  riotous  scene  taking 
place  over  here,"  he  said.  "One  of  the  gardeners 
was  talking  about  it  to  Elizabeth.  Your  bad  night 


248  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

wouldn't  be  connected  with  that,  would  it?  You 
haven't  been  playing  Samaritan?" 

"What  was  it  you  heard?"  I  asked  quickly. 

"I  didn't  pay  much  attention.  He  said  that  there 
was  great  excitement  at  Madame  Brossard's,  because 
a  strange  woman  had  turned  up  and  claimed  an 
insane  young  man  at  the  inn  for  her  husband,  and 
that  they  had  a  fight  of  some  sort " 

"Damnation!"  I  started  from  my  chair.  "Did 
Mrs.  Harman  hear  this  story?" 

"Not  last  night,  I'm  certain.  Elizabeth  said  the 
gardener  told  her  as  she  came  down  to  the  chateau 
gates  to  meet  me  when  I  arrived — it  was  late, 
and  Louise  had  already  gone  to  her  room.  In  fact, 
I  have  not  seen  her  yet.  But  what  difference  could 
it  possibly  make  whether  she  heard  it  or  not?  She 
doesn't  know  these  people,  surely?" 

"She  knows  the  man." 

"This  insane " 

"He  is  not  insane,"  I  interrupted.  "He  has  lost 
the  memory  of  his  earlier  life — lost  it  through  an 
accident.  You  and  I  saw  the  accident." 

"That's  impossible,"  said  George,  frowning.  "I 
never  saw  but  one  accident  that  you — 

"That  was  the  one:  the  man  is  Larrabee  Harman." 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN  249 

George  had  struck  a  match  to  light  a  cigar;  but 
the  operation  remained  incomplete:  he  dropped  the 
match  upon  the  floor  and  set  his  foot  upon  it.  "Well, 
tell  me  about  it,"  he  said. 

"You  haven't  heard  anything  about  him  since 
the  accident?" 

"Only  that  he  did  eventually  recover  and  was 
taken  away  from  the  hospital.  I  heard  that  his  mind 
was  impaired.  Does  Louise—  '  he  began;  stopped, 
and  cleared  his  throat.  "Has  Mrs.  Harman  heard 
that  he  is  here?" 

"Yes;  she  has  seen  him." 

"Do  you  mean  the  scoundrel  has  been  bothering 
her?  Elizabeth  didn't  tell  me  of  this— 

"Your  sister  doesn't  know,"  I  said,  lifting  my 
hand  to  check  him.  "I  think  you  ought  to  under- 
stand the  whole  case — if  you'll  let  me  tell  you  what 
I  know  about  it." 

"Go  ahead,"  he  bade  me.  "I'll  try  to  listen 
patiently,  though  the  very  thought  of  the  fellow  has 
always  set  my  teeth  on  edge." 

"He's  not  at  aU  what  you  think,"  I  said.  "There's 
an  enormous  difference,  almost  impossible  to  explain 
to  you,  but  something  you'd  understand  at  once  if 
you  saw  him.  It's  such  a  difference,  in  fact,  that 


250  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

when  I  found  that  he  was  Larrabee  Harman  the 
revelation  was  inexpressibly  shocking  and  distress- 
ing to  me.  He  came  here  under  another  name;  I 
had  no  suspicion  that  he  was  any  one  I'd  ever  heard 
of,  much  less  that  I'd  actually  seen  him  twice,  two 
years  ago,  and  I've  grown  to — well,  in  truth,  to  be 
fond  of  him." 

"What  is  the  change?"  asked  Ward,  and  his 
voice  showed  that  he  was  greatly  disquieted.  "What 
is  he  like?" 

"As  well  as  I  can  tell  you,  he's  like  an  odd  but 
very  engaging  boy,  with  something  pathetic  about 
him;  quite  splendidly  handsome 

"Oh,  he  had  good  looks  to  spare  when  I  first 
knew  him,"  George  said  bitterly.  "I  dare  say  he's 
got  them  back  if  he's  taken  care  of  himself,  or  been 
taken  care  of,  rather!  But  go  on;  I  won't  interrupt 

you  again.     Why  did  he  come  here?     Hoping  to 

>? 

"No.  When  he  came  here  he  did  not  know  of  her 
existence  except  in  the  vaguest  way.  But  to  go 
back  to  that,  I'd  better  tell  you  first  that  the  woman 
we  saw  with  him,  one  day  on  the  boulevard,  and  who 
was  in  the  accident  with  him ' 

"La  Mursiana,  the  dancer;  I  know." 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN 

"She  had  got  him  to  go  through  a  marriage 
with  her " 

"What?"  Ward's  eyes  flashed  as  he  shouted  the 
word. 

"It  seems  inexplicable;  but  as  I  understand  it, 
he  was  never  quite  sober  at  that  time;  he  had  begun 
to  use  drugs,  and  was  often  in  a  half-stupefied  con- 
dition. As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  woman  did  what 
she  pleased  with  him.  There's  no  doubt  about  the 
validity  of  the  marriage.  And  what  makes  it  so  des- 
perate a  muddle  is  that  since  the  marriage  she's 
taken  good  care  to  give  no  grounds  upon  which  a 
divorce  could  be  obtained  for  Harman.  She  means 
to  hang  on." 

"I'm  glad  of  that!"  said  George,  striking  his 
knee  with  his  open  palm.  "That  will  go  a  great 
way  toward " 

He  paused,  and  asked  suddenly:  "Did  this  mar- 
riage take  place  in  France?" 

"Yes.  You'd  better  hear  me  through,"  I 
remonstrated.  "When  he  was  taken  from  the 
hospital,  he  was  placed  in  charge  of  a  Professor 
Keredec,  a  madman  of  whom  you've  probably 
heard." 

"Madman?     Why,   no;   he's   a   member   of   the 


THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

Institute;    a    psychologist    or    metaphysician,    isn't 
he? —  at  any  rate  of  considerable  celebrity." 

"Nevertheless,"  I  insisted  grimly,  "as  misty  a 
vapourer  as  I  ever  saw;  a  poetic,  self -contradicting 
and  inconsistent  orator,  a  blower  of  bubbles,  a  seer 
of  visions,  a  mystic,  and  a  dreamer — about  as  scien- 
tific as  Alice's  White  Knight!  Harman's  aunt,  who 
lived  in  London,  the  only  relative  he  had  left,  I  believe 
— and  she  has  died  since — put  him  in  Keredec's 
charge,  and  he  was  taken  up  into  the  Tyrol  and 
virtually  hidden  for  two  years,  the  idea  being  literally 
to  give  him  something  like  an  education — Keredec's 
phrase  is  'restore  mind  to  his  soul'!  What  must 
have  been  quite  as  vital  was  to  get  him  out  of  his 
horrible  wife's  clutches.  And  they  did  it,  for  she 
could  not  find  him.  But  she  picked  up  that  rat  in 
the  garden  out  yonder — he'd  been  some  sort  of 
stable-manager  for  Harman  once — and  set  him 
the  track.  He  ran  the  poor  boy  down,  and  yes 
day  she  followed  him.  Now  it  amounts  to  a  speci 
of  sordid  siege." 

"She  wants  money,  of  course." 

"Yes,  more  money;  a  fair  allowance  has  always 
been  sent  to  her.  Keredec  has  interviewed  her 
notary  and  she  wants  a  settlement,  naming  a  su 


er 

., 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN  253 

actually  larger  than  the  whole  estate  amounts  to. 
There  were  colossal  expenditures  and  equally  large 
shrinkages;  what  he  has  left  is  invested  in  English 
securities  and  is  not  a  fortune,  but  of  course  she 
won't  believe  that  and  refuses  to  budge  until  this 
impossible  settlement  is  made.  You  can  imagine 
about  how  competent  such  a  man  as  Keredec  would 
be  to  deal  with  the  situation.  In  the  mean  time, 
his  ward  is  in  so  dreadful  a  state  of  horror  and  grief 
I  am  afraid  it  is  possible  that  his  mind  may  really 
give  way,  for  it  was  not  in  a  normal  condition,  of 
course,  though  he's  perfectly  sane,  as  I  tell  you. 
If  it  should,"  I  concluded,  with  some  bitterness, 
"I  suppose  Keredec  will  be  still  prating  upliftingly 
on  the  saving  of  his  soul!" 

"When  was  it  that  Louise  saw  him?" 

"Ah,  that,"  I  said,  "is  where  Keredec  has  been 
a  poet  and  a  dreamer  indeed.  It  was  his  plan  that 
they  should  meet." 

"You  mean  he  brought  this  wreck  of  Harman, 
these  husks  and  shreds  of  a  man,  down  here  for 
Louise  to  see?"  Ward  cried  incredulously.  "Oh, 
monstrous !" 

"No,"  I  answered.  "Only  insane.  Not  because 
there  is  anything  lacking  in  Oliver — in  Harman, 


254  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

I  mean — for  I  think  that  will  be  righted  in  time, 
but  because  the  second  marriage  makes  it  a  use- 
less cruelty  that  he  should  have  been  allowed  to 
fall  in  love  with  his  first  wife  again.  Yet  that  was 
Keredec's  idea  of  a  'beautiful  restoration,'  as  he 
calls  it!" 

"There  is  something  behind  all  this  that  you 
don't  know,"  said  Ward  slowly.  "I'll  tell  you 
after  I've  seen  this  Keredec.  When  did  the  man 
make  you  his  confidant?" 

"Last  night.  Most  of  what  I  learned  was  as 
much  a  revelation  to  his  victim  as  it  was  to  me. 
Harman  did  not  know  till  then  that  the  lady  he 
had  been  meeting  had  been  his  wife,  or  that  he 
had  ever  seen  her  before  he  came  here.  He  had 
mistaken  her  name  and  she  did  not  enlighten  him." 

"Meeting?"  said  Ward  harshly.  "You  speak  as 
if " 

"They  have  been  meeting  every  day,  George." 

"I  won't  believe  it  of  her!"  he  cried.  "She 
couldn't " 

"It's  true.  He  spoke  to  her  in  the  woods  one 
day;  I  was  there  and  saw  it.  I  know  now  that 
she  knew  him  at  once;  and  she  ran  away,  but— 
not  in  anger.  I  shouldn't  be  a  very  good  fri( 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN  255 

of  yours,"  I  went  on  gently,  "if  I  didn't  give  you 
the  truth.  They've  been  together  every  day  since 
then,  and  I'm  afraid — miserably  afraid,  Ward- 
that  her  old  feeling  for  him  has  been  revived." 

I  have  heard  Ward  use  an  oath  only  two  or  three 
times  in  my  life,  and  this  was  one  of  them. 

"Oh,  by  God!"  he  cried,  starting  to  his  feet; 
"I  should  like  to  meet  Professor  Keredec!" 

"I  am  at  your  service,  my  dear  sir,"  said  a  deep 
voice  from  the  veranda.  And  opening  the  door, 
the  professor  walked  into  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

HE  looked  old  and  tired  and  sad;  it  was 
plain  that  he  expected  attack  and  equally 
plain  that  he  would  meet  it  with  fanatic 
serenity.  And  yet,  the  magnificent  blunderer  pre- 
sented so  fine  an  aspect  of  the  tortured  Olympian, 
he  confronted  us  with  so  vast  a  dignity — the  driven 
snow  of  his  hair  tousled  upon  his  head  and  shoulders, 
like  a  storm  in  the  higher  altitudes — that  he  regained, 
in  my  eyes,  something  of  his  mountain  grandeur 
before  he  had  spoken  a  word  in  defence.  But  sym- 
pathy is  not  what  one  should  be  entertaining  for 
an  antagonist;  therefore  I  said  cavalierly: 

"This  is  Mr.  Ward,  Professor  Keredec.  He  is 
Mrs.  Harman's  cousin  and  close  friend." 

"I  had  divined  it."  The  professor  made  aFrench 
bow,  and  George  responded  with  as  slight  a  saluta- 
tion as  it  has  been  my  lot  to  see. 

"We  were  speaking  of  your  reasons,"  I  con- 
tinued, "for  bringing  Mr.  Harman  to  this  place. 
Frankly,  we  were  questioning  your  motive." 


256 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN  257 

"My  motives?  I  have  wished  to  restore  to  two 
young  people  the  paradise  which  they  had  lost". 

Ward  uttered  an  exclamation  none  the  less  violent 
because  it  was  half-suppressed,  while,  for  my  part, 
I  laughed  outright;  and  as  Keredec  turned  his  eyes 
questioningly  upon  me,  I  said: 

"Professor  Keredec,  you'd  better  understand  at 
once  that  I  mean  to  help  undo  the  harm  you've  done. 
I  couldn't  tell  you  last  night,  in  Harman's  presence, 
but  I  think  you're  responsible  for  the  whole  ghastly 
tragi-comedy — as  hopeless  a  tangle  as  ever  was  made 
on  this  earth!" 

This  was  even  more  roughly  spoken  than  I  had 
intended,  but  it  did  not  cause  him  to  look  less  mildly 
upon  me,  nor  was  there  the  faintest  shadow  of 
resentment  in  his  big  voice  when  he  replied: 

"In  this  world  things  may  be  tangled,  they  may 
be  sad,  yet  they  may  be  good." 

"I'm  afraid  that  seems  rather  a  trite  generality. 
I  beg  you  to  remember  that  plain-speaking  is  of 
some  importance  just  now." 

"I  shall  remember." 

'Then  we  should  be  glad  of  the  explanation," 
said  Ward,  resting  his  arms  on  my  table  and  leaning 
across  it  toward  Keredec. 


258  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

"We  should,  indeed,"  I  echoed. 
"It  is  simple,"  began  the  professor.  "I  learned 
my  poor  boy's  history  well,  from  those  who  could 
tell  me,  from  his  papers — yes,  and  from  the  bundles 
of  old-time  letters  which  were  given  me — since  it  was 
necessary  that  I  should  know  everything.  From 
all  these  I  learned  what  a  strong  and  beautiful  soul 
was  that  lady  who  loved  him  so  much  that  she  ran 
away  from  her  home  for  his  sake.  Hdlas!  he  was 
already  the  slave  of  what  was  bad  and  foolish,  he 
had  gone  too  far  from  himself,  was  overlaid  with 
the  habit  of  evil,  and  she  could  not  save  him  then. 
The  spirit  was  dying  in  him,  although  it  was  there, 
and  it  was  good- 
Ward's  acrid  laughter  rang  out  in  the  room,  and 
my  admiration  went  unwillingly  to  Keredec  for  the 
way  he  took  it,  which  was  to  bow  gravely,  as  if 
acknowledging  the  other's  right  to  his  own  poii 
of  view. 

"If  you  will  study  the  antique  busts,"  he 
"you  will  find  that  Socrates  is  Silenus  dignifi< 
I  choose  to  believe  in  the  infinite  capacities  of 
men — and  in  the  spirit  in  all.  And  so  I  try  to  restore 
my  poor  boy  his  capacities  and  his  spirit.  But  that 
was  not  all.  The  time  was  coming  when  I  could  do 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN  259 

DO  more  for  him,  when  the  little  education  of  books 
would  be  finish'  and  he  must  go  out  in  the  world 
again  to  learn — all  newly — how  to  make  of  himself 
a  man  of  use.  That  is  the  time  of  danger,  and  the 
thought  was  troubling  me  when  I  learned  that 
Madame  Harman  was  here,  near  this  inn,  of  which 
I  knew.  So  I  brought  him." 

"The  inconceivable  selfishness,  the  devilish  bru- 
tality of  it!"  Ward's  face  was  scarlet.  "You 
didn't  care  how  you  sacrificed  her— 

"Sacrificed!"  The  professor  suddenly  released 
the  huge  volume  of  his  voice.  "Sacrificed!"  he 
thundered.  "If  I  could  give  him  back  to  her  as 
he  is  now,  it  would  be  restoring  to  her  all  that  she 
had  loved  in  him,  the  real  self  of  him!  It  would 
be  the  greatest  gift  in  her  life." 

"You  speak  for  her?"  demanded  Ward,  the  ques- 
tion coming  like  a  lawyer's.  It  failed  to  disturb 
Keredec,  who  replied  quietly: 

"It  is  a  quibble.  I  speak  for  her,  yes,  my  dear 
sir.  Her  action  in  defiance  of  her  family  and  her 
friends  proved  the  strength  of  what  she  felt  for  the 
man  she  married;  that  she  have  remained  with  him 
three  years — until  it  was  impossible — proved  its 
persistence;  her  letters,  which  I  read  with  reverence, 


260  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

proved  its  beauty — to  me.  It  was  a  living  passion, 
one  that  could  not  die.  To  let  them  see  each  other 
again;  that  was  all  I  intended.  To  give  them  their 
new  chance — and  then,  for  myself,  to  keep  out  of 
the  way.  That  was  why — "  he  turned  to  me — "that 
was  why  I  have  been  guilty  of  pretending  to  have 
that  bad  rheumatism,  and  I  hope  you  will  not 
think  it  an  ugly  trick  of  me!  It  was  to  give  him 
his  chance  freely;  and  though  at  first  I  had  much 
anxiety  it  was  done.  In  spite  of  all  his  wicked 
follies  theirs  had  been  a  true  love,  and  nothing  in 
this  world  could  be  more  inevitable  than  that  they 
should  come  together  again  if  the  chance  could  be 
given.  And  they  have,  my  dear  sirs!  It  has  so  hap- 
pened. To  him  it  has  been  a  wooing  as  if  for  the 
first  time;  so  she  has  preferred  it,  keeping  him  to 
his  mistake  of  her  name.  She  feared  that  if  he 
knew  that  it  was  the  same  as  his  own  he  might 
ask  questions  of  me,  and,  you  see,  she  did  not 
know  that  I  had  made  this  little  plan,  and  was 
afraid " 

"We  are  not  questioning  Mrs.  Harman's  motive 
George  interrupted  hotly,  "but  yours!" 

"Very   well,   my  dear  sir;   that  is  all.     I  have 
explained  them." 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN  261 

"You  have?"  I  interjected.  "Then,  my  dear 
Keredec,  either  you  are  really  insane  or  I  am! 
You  knew  that  this  poor,  unfortunate  devil  of  a 
Harman  was  tied  to  that  hyenic  prowler  yonder 
who  means  to  fatten  on  him,  and  will  never  release 
him;  you  knew  that.  Then  why  did  you  bring 
him  down  here  to  fall  in  love  with  a  woman  he 
he  can  never  have?  In  pity's  name,  if  you  didn't 
hope  to  half  kill  them  both,  what  did  you  mean?" 

"My  dear  fellow,"  interposed  George  quickly, 
"you  underrate  Professor  Keredec's  shrewdness* 
His  plans  are  not  so  simple  as  you  think.  He 
knows  that  my  cousin  Louise  never  obtained  a 
divorce  from  her  husband." 

"What?"  I  said,  not  immediately  comprehending 
his  meaning. 

"I  say,  Mrs.  Harman  never  obtained  a  divorce." 

"Are  you  delirious?"  I  gasped. 

"It's  the  truth;  she  never  did." 

"I  saw  a  notice  of  it  at  the  time.  'A  notice?' 
I  saw  a  hundred !" 

"No.  What  you  saw  was  that  she  had  made 
an  application  for  divorce.  Her  family  got  her 
that  far  and  then  she  revolted.  The  suit  was 
dropped." 


262  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

"It  is  true,  indeed,"  said  Keredec.  "The  poor 
boy  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  world,  and  he 
thought  it  was  granted.  He  had  been  bad  before, 
but  from  that  time  he  cared  nothing  what  became 
of  him.  That  was  the  reason  this  Si 


woman 

I  turned  upon  him  sharply.    "You  knew  it?" 
"It  is  a  year  that  I  have  known  it;  when  his 
estate  was— 

"Then  why  didn't  you  tell  me  last  night?" 
"My  dear  sir,  I  could  not  in  his  presence,  because 
it  is  one  thing  I  dare  not  let  him  know.     This 
Spanish  woman  is  so  hideous,  her  claim  upon  him 
is  so  horrible  to  him  I  could  not  hope  to  conti 
him — he  would  shout  it  out  to  her  that  she  cam 
call  him  husband.     God  knows  what  he  would  do! 
"Well,  why  shouldn't  he  shout  it  out  to  her?' 
"You    do    not    understand,"    George    interpc 
again,  "that  what  Professor  Keredec  risked  for 
'poor  boy,'  in  returning  to  France,  was  a  trial 
the  charge  of  bigamy!" 

The  professor  recoiled  from  the  definite  brutalil 
"My  dear  sir!  It  is  not  possible  that  such  a  thii 
can  happen." 

"I  conceive  it  very  likely  to  happen,"  said  Georj 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN  263 

: 'unless  you  get  him  out  of  the  country  before  the 
.ady  now  installed  here  as  his  wife  discovers  the 
truth." 

"But  she  must  not!"  Keredec  lifted  both  hands 
toward  Ward  appealingly;  they  trembled,  and  his 
voice  betrayed  profound  agitation.  "She  cannot! 
She  has  never  suspected  such  a  thing;  there  is 
nothing  that  could  make  her  suspect  it!" 

"One  particular  thing  would  be  my  telling  her," 
said  Ward  quietly. 

"Never!"  cried  the  professor,  stepping  back  from 
him.  "You  could  not  do  that!" 

"I  not  only  could,  but  I  will,  unless  you  get  him 
out  of  the  country — and  quickly!" 

"George!"  I  exclaimed,  coming  forward  between 
them.  "This  won't  do  at  all.  You  can't " 

"That's  enough,"  he  said,  waving  me  back,  and 
I  saw  that  his  hand  was  shaking,  too,  like  Keredec's. 
His  face  had  grown  very  white;  but  he  controlled 
himself  to  speak  with  a  coolness  that  made  what  he 
said  painfully  convincing.  "I  know  what  you  think," 
he  went  on,  addressing  me,  "but  you're  wrong.  It 
isn't  for  myself.  When  I  sailed  for  New  York  in  the 
spring  I  thought  there  was  a  chance  that  she  would 
carry  out  the  action  she  begun  four  years  ago  and 


264  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

go  through  the  form  of  ridding  herself  of  him  d( 
tritely;  that  is,  I  thought  there  was  some  hope 
me;  I  believed  there  was  until  this  morning. 
I  know  better  now.  If  she's  seen  him  again,  am 
he's  been  anything  except  literally  unbearable,  it's 
all  over  with  me.  From  the  first,  I  never  had  a 
chance  against  him;  he  was  a  hard  rival,  even  when 
he'd  become  only  a  cruel  memory."  His  voice 
rose.  "I've  lived  a  sober,  decent  life,  and  I've 
treated  her  with  gentleness  and  reverence  since  she 
was  born,  and  he's  done  nothing  but  make  a  stew- 
pan  of  his  life  and  neglect  and  betray  her  when  he 
had  her.  Heaven  knows  why  it  is;  it  isn't  because 
of  anything  he's  done  or  has,  it's  just  because  it's 
him,  I  suppose,  but  I  know  my  chance  is  goi 
for  good!  That  leaves  me  free  to  act  for  her; 
one  can  accuse  me  of  doing  it  for  myself.  And 
I  swear  she  sha'n't  go  through  that  slough  of 
spond  again  while  I  have  breath  in  my  body!" 

"Steady,  George!"  I  said. 

"Oh,  I'm  steady  enough,"  he  cried.  "Proft 
Keredec  shall  be  convinced  of  it!  My  cousin  is 
not  going  into  the  mire  again;  she  shall  be  freed 
of  it  for  ever:  I  speak  as  her  relative  now,  the  repre- 
sentative of  her  family  and  of  those  who  care  for 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN  265 

her  happiness  and  good.  Now  she  shall  make  the 
separation  definite — and  legal!  And  let  Professor 
Keredec  get  his  'poor  boy*  out  of  the  country. 
Let  him  do  it  quickly!  I  make  it  as  a  condition 
of  my  not  informing  the  woman  yonder  and  her 
lawyer.  And  by  my  hope  of  salvation  I  warn 
you-  -" 

"George,  for  pity's  sake!"  I  shouted,  throwing 
my  arm  about  his  shoulders,  for  his  voice  had  risen 
to  a  pitch  of  excitement  and  fury  that  I  feared  must 
bring  the  whole  place  upon  us.  He  caught  himself 
up  suddenly,  stared  at  me  blankly  for  a  moment, 
then  sank  into  a  chair  with  a  groan.  As  he  did  so. 
I  became  aware  of  a  sound  that  had  been  worrying 
my  subconsciousness  for  an  indefinite  length  of  time, 
and  realised  what  it  was.  Some  one  was  knocking 
for  admission. 

I  crossed  the  room  and  opened  the  door.  Miss 
Elizabeth  stood  there,  red-faced  and  flustered,  and 
behind  her  stood  Mr.  Cresson  Ingle,  who  looked 
dubiously  amused. 

"Ah — come  in,"  I  said  awkwardly.  "George  is 
here.  Let  me  present  Professor  Keredec — 

"  'George  is  here!'  '  echoed  Miss  Elizabeth, 
interrupting,  and  paying  no  attention  whatever  to 


266  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

an  agitated  bow  on  the  part  of  the  professor, 
should  say  he  was!     They  probably  know  that 
the  way  to  Trouville!" 

"We  were  discussing—  "  I  began. 

"Ah,  I  know  what  you  were  discussing,"  she 
impatiently.  "Come  in,  Cresson."  She  turned  to 
Mr.  Ingle,  who  was  obviously  reluctant.  "It  is  a 
family  matter,  and  you'll  have  to  go  through  with 
it  now." 

"That  reminds  me,"  I  said.     "May  I  offer— 

"Not  now!"  Miss  Elizabeth  cut  short  a  rather 
embarrassed  handshake  which  her  betrothed  and  I 
were  exchanging.  "I'm  in  a  very  nervous  and  dis- 
tressed state  of  mind,  as  I  suppose  we  all  are,  for 
that  matter.  This  morning  I  learned  the  true  siti 
tion  over  here;  and  I'm  afraid  Louise  has  he? 
at  least  she's  not  at  Quesnay.  I  got  into  a  pj 
for  fear  she  had  come  here,  but  thank  heaven  si 
does  not  seem  to — Good  gracious!  What's 

It  was  the  discordant  voice  of  Mariana  la  Mi 
siana,  crackling  in  strident  protest.     My  door 
still  open;  I  turned  to  look  and  saw  her,  hot-fac< 
tousle-haired,    insufficiently    wrapped,    striving 
ascend  the  gallery  steps,  but  valiantly  opposed 
Madame  Brossard,  who  stood  in  the  way. 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN  267 

"But  no,  madame,"  insisted  Madame  Brossard, 
excited  but  darkly  determined.  "You  cannot  ascend. 
There  is  nothing  on  the  upper  floor  of  this  wing 
except  the  apartment  of  Professor  Keredec." 

"Name  of  a  dog!"  shrilled  the  other.  "It  is  my 
husband's  apartment,  I  tell  you.  II  y  a  une  femme 
avec  lui!" 

"It  is  Madame  Harman  who  is  there,"  said 
Keredec  hoarsely  in  my  ear.  "I  came  away  and 
left  them  together." 

"Come,"  I  said,  and,  letting  the  others  think  what 
they  would,  sprang  across  the  veranda,  the  professor 
beside  me,  and  ran  toward  the  two  women  who  were 
beginning  to  struggle  with  more  than  their  tongues. 
I  leaped  by  them  and  up  the  steps,  but  Keredec 
thrust  himself  between  our  hostess  and  her  opponent, 
planting  his  great  bulk  on  the  lowest  step.  Glanc- 
ing hurriedly  over  my  shoulder,  I  saw  the  Spanish 
woman  strike  him  furiously  upon  the  breast  with 
both  hands,  but  I  knew  she  would  never  pass  him. 

I  entered  the  salon  of  the  "Grande  Suite,"  and 
closed  the  door  quickly  behind  me. 

Louise  Harman  was  standing  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room;  she  wore  the  pretty  dress  of  white  and 


268  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

lilac  and  the  white  hat.  She  looked  cool  and  beau- 
tiful and  good,  and  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 
To  come  into  this  quiet  chamber  and  see  her  so, 
after  the  hot  sunshine  and  tawdry  scene  below,  was 
like  leaving  the  shouting  market-place  for  a  shadowy 
chapel. 

Her  husband  was  kneeling  beside  her;  he  held  one 
of  her  hands  in  both  his,  her  other  rested  upon 
his  head;  and  something  in  their  attitudes  made  me 
know  I  had  come  in  upon  their  leave-taking.  But 
from  the  face  he  lifted  toward  her  all  trace  of  his 
tragedy  had  passed:  the  wonder  and  worship  written 
there  left  no  room  for  anything  else. 

"Mrs.  Harman —  "  I  began. 

"Yes?"  she  said.     "I  am  coming." 

"But  I  don't  want  you  to.  I've  come  for  fear 
you  would,  and  you — you  must  not,"  I  stammered. 
"You  must  wait." 

"Why?" 

"It's    necessary,"    I    floundered.      "There    is 
scene ' 

"I  know,"  she  said  quietly.     "That  must  be, 


course." 


Harman  rose,  and  she  took  both  his  hands,  hold- 
ing them  against  her  breast. 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN  269 

"My  dear,"  she  said  gently, — "my  dearest, 
you  must  stay.  Will  you  promise  not  to  pass 
that  door,  even,  until  you  have  word  from  me 
again?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered  huskily,  "if  you'll  promise 
it  shall  come — some  day?" 

"It  shall,  indeed.     Be  sure  of  it." 

I  had  turned  away,  but  I  heard  the  ghost  of  his 
voice  whispering  "good-bye."  Then  she  was  beside 
me  and  opening  the  door. 

I  tried  to  stay  her. 

"Mrs.    Harman,"    I    urged,    "I    earnestly    beg 


you- 

"No,"  she  answered,  "this  is  better." 
She  stepped  out  upon  the  gallery;  I  followed, 
and  she  closed  the  door.  Upon  the  veranda  of  my 
pavilion  were  my  visitors  from  Quesnay,  staring 
up  at  us  apprehensively;  Madame  Brossard  and 
Keredec  still  held  the  foot  of  the  steps,  but  la 
Mursiana  had  abandoned  the  siege,  and,  accom- 
panied by  Mr.  Percy  and  Rameau,  the  black- 
bearded  notary,  who  had  joined  her,  was  crossing 
the  garden  toward  her  own  apartment. 

At  the  sound  of   the  closing  door,   she  glanced 
over  her  shoulder,  sent  forth  a  scream,  and,  whirl- 


270  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

ing  about,  ran  viciously  for  the  steps,  where  she 
was  again  blocked  by  the  indomitable  Keredec. 

"Ah,  you  foolish  woman,  I  know  who  you  are," 
she  cried,  stepping  back  from  him  to  shake  a  menac- 
ing hand  at  the  quiet  lady  by  my  side.  "You  want 
to  get  yourself  into  trouble!  That  man  in  the  room 
up  there  has  been  my  husband  these  two  years  and 


more." 


"No,  madame,"  said  Louise  Harman,  "you  are 
mistaken;  he  is  my  husband." 

"But  you  divorced  him,"  vociferated  the  other 
wildly.  "You  divorced  him  in  America!" 

"No.  You  are  mistaken,"  the  quiet  voice 
replied.  "The  suit  was  withdrawn.  He  is  still 
my  husband." 

I  heard  the  professor's  groan  of  despair,  but  it 
was  drowned  in  the  wild  shriek  of  Mariana.  "What? 
You  tell  me  that?  Ah,  the  miserable!  If  what  you 
say  is  true,  he  shall  pay  bitterly!  He  shall  wish 
that  he  had  died  by  fire!  What!  You  think  he  can 
marry  me,  break  my  leg  so  that  I  cannot  dance 
again,  ruin  my  career,  and  then  go  away  with  a 
pretty  woman  like  you  and  be  happy?  Aha,  there 
are  prisons  in  France  for  people  who  marry  two 
Uke  that;  I  do  not  know  what  they  do  in  youf 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN  271 

barbaric  country,  but  they  are  decent  people  over 
here  and  they  punish.  He  shall  pay  for  it  in  suffer- 
ing— "  her  voice  rose  to  an  incredible  and  unbear- 
able shriek — "and  you,  you  shall  pay,  too!  You 
can't  come  stealing  honest  women's  husbands  like 
that.  You  shall  pay!" 

I  saw  George  Ward  come  running  forward  with 
his  hand  upraised  in  a  gesture  of  passionate  warn- 
ing, for  Mrs.  Harman,  unnoticed  by  me — I  was 
watching  the  Spanish  woman — had  descended  the 
steps  and  had  passed  Keredec,  walking  straight  to 
Mariana.  I  leaped  down  after  her,  my  heart  in  my 
throat,  fearing  a  thousand  things. 

"You  must  not  talk  like  that,"  she  said,  not  lift- 
ing her  voice — yet  every  one  in  the  courtyard  heard 
her  distinctly.  "You  can  do  neither  of  us  any  harm 
in  the  world." 


CHAPTER  XX 

IT  is  impossible  to  say  what  Mariana  would  have 
done  had  there  been  no  interference,  for  she 
had  worked  herself  into  one  of  those  furies 
which  women  of  her  type  can  attain  when  they  feel 
the  occasion  demands  it,  a  paroxysm  none  the  less 
dangerous  because  its  foundation  is  histrionic.  But 
Rameau  threw  his  arms  about  her;  Mr.  Percy  came 
hastily  to  his  assistance,  and  Ward  and  I  sprang  in 
between  her  and  the  too-fearless  lady  she  strove  to 
reach.  Even  at  that,  the  finger-nails  of  Mariana's 
right  hand  touched  the  pretty  white  hat — but  only 
touched  it  and  no  more. 

Rameau  and  the  little  spy  managed  to  get  their 
vociferating  burden  across  the  courtyard  and  into 
her  own  door,  where  she  suddenly  subsided,  dis- 
appearing within  the  passage  to  her  apartment  in 
unexpected  silence — indubitably  a  disappointment  to 
the  interested  Amedee,  to  Glouglou,  Francois,  and 
the  whole  personnel  of  the  inn,  who  hastened  to 
group  themselves  about  the  door  in  attentive  a1 

tudes. 

272 


CHAPTER  TWENTY  273 

"In  heaven's  name,"  gasped  Miss  Elizabeth,  seiz- 
ing her  cousin  by  the  arm,  "come  into  the  pavilion. 
Here's  the  whole  world  looking  at  us!" 

"Professor  Keredec —  "  Mrs.  Harman  began,  resist- 
ing, and  turning  to  the  professor  appealingly. 

"Oh,  let  him  come  too!"  said  Miss  Elizabeth 
desperately.  "Nothing  could  be  worse  than  this!" 

She  led  the  way  back  to  the  pavilion,  and,  refus- 
ing to  consider  a  proposal  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Ingle 
and  myself  to  remain  outside,  entered  the  room  last, 
herself,  producing  an  effect  of  "shooing"  the  rest 
of  us  in;  closed  the  door  with  surprising  force, 
relapsed  in  a  chair,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"Not  a  soul  at  Quesnay,"  sobbed  the  mortified 
chatelaine — "not  one  but  will  know  this  before 
dinner!  They'll  hear  the  whole  thing  within  two 
hours." 

"Isn't  there  any  way  of  stopping  that,  at  least?" 
Ward  said  to  me. 

"None  on  earth,  unless  you  go  home  at  once  and 
turn  your  visitors  and  their  servants  out  of  the 
house,"  I  answered. 

"There  is  nothing  they  shouldn't  know,"  said 
Mrs.  Harman. 

George  turned  to  her  with  a  smile  so  bravely  man- 


274  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

aged  that  I  was  proud  of  him.     "Oh,  yes,  there  is," 
he  said.     "We're  going  to  get  you  out  of  all  this." 

"All  this?"  she  repeated. 

"All  this  mire!"  he  answered.  "We're  going  to 
get  you  out  of  it  and  keep  you  out  of  it,  now,  for 
good.  I  don't  know  whether  your  revelation  to  the 
Spanish  woman  will  make  that  easier  or  harder,  but 
I  do  know  that  it  makes  the  mire  deeper." 

"For  whom?" 

"For  Harman.    But  you  sha'n't  share  it!" 

Her  anxious  eyes  grew  wider.  "How  have  I  made 
it  deeper  for  him?  Wasn't  it  necessary  that  the 
poor  woman  should  be  told  the  truth?" 

"Professor  Keredec  seemed  to  think  it  important 
that  she  shouldn't." 

She  turned  to  Keredec  with  a  frightened  gesture 
and  an  unintelligible  word  of  appeal,  as  if  entreat- 
ing him  to  deny  what  George  had  said.  The  pi 
fessor's  beard  was  trembling;  he  looked  haggai 
an  almost  pitiable  apprehension  hung  upon  his 
lids;  but  he  came  forward  manfully. 

"Madame,"  he  said,   "y°u  could  never  in  y< 
life  do  anything  that  would  make  harm.    You  w< 
right  to  speak,  and  I  had  short  sight  to  fear, 
it  was  the  truth." 


CHAPTER  TWENTY  275 

"But  why  did  you  fear  it?" 

"It  was  because—  "  he  began,  and  hesitated. 

"I  must  know  the  reason,"  she  urged.  "I  must 
know  just  what  I've  done." 

"It  was  because,"  he  repeated,  running  a  nervous 
hand  through  his  beard,  "because  the  knowledge 
would  put  us  so  utterly  in  this  people's  power. 
Already  they  demand  more  than  we  could  give 
them;  now  they  can— 

"They  can  do  what?"  she  asked  tremulously. 

His  eyes  rested  gently  on  her  blanched  and 
stricken  face.  "Nothing,  my  dear  lady,"  he 
answered,  swallowing  painfully.  "Nothing  that 
will  last.  I  am  an  old  man.  I  have  seen  and  I 
have — I  have  thought.  And  I  tell  you  that  only 
the  real  survives;  evil  actions  are  some  phantoms 
that  disappear.  They  must  not  trouble  us." 

"That  is  a  high  plane,"  George  intervened,  and 
he  spoke  without  sarcasm.  "To  put  it  roughly, 
these  people  have  been  asking  more  than  the  Harman 
estate  is  worth;  that  was  on  the  strength  of  the 
woman's  claim  as  a  wife;  but  now  they  know  she  is 
not  one,  her  position  is  immensely  strengthened,  for 
she  has  only  to  go  before  the  nearest  Commissaire 
de  Police " 


276  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

"Oh,  no!"  Mrs.  Harman  cried  passionately, 
haven't  done  that!     You  mustn't  tell  me  I 
You  mustn't!" 

"Never!"  he  answered.  "There  could  not  be  a 
greater  lie  than  to  say  you  have  done  it.  The 
responsibility  is  with  the  wretched  and  vicious  boy 
who  brought  the  catastrophe  upon  himself.  But 
don't  you  see  that  you've  got  to  keep  out  of  it, 
that  we've  got  to  take  you  out  of  it?" 

"You  can't!  I'm  part  of  it;  better  or  worse,  it's 
as  much  mine  as  his." 

"No,  no!"  cried  Miss  Elizabeth.  "You  mustn't 
tell  us  thai!"  Still  weeping,  she  sprang  up  and 
threw  her  arms  about  her  brother.  "It's  too  hor- 
rible of  you- " 

"It  is  what  I  must  tell  you,"  Mrs.  Harman  said. 
"My  separation  from  my  husband  is  over.  I  shall 
be  with  him  now  for — 

"I  won't  listen  to  you!"  Miss  Elizabeth  lifted 
her  wet  face  from  George's  shoulder,  and  there  was 
a  note  of  deep  anger  in  her  voice.  "You  don't 
know  what  you're  talking  about;  you  haven't  the 
faintest  idea  of  what  a  hideous  situation  that  creature 
has  made  for  himself.  Don't  you  know  that  that 
awful  woman  was  right,  and  there  are  laws  in 


CHAPTER  TWENTY  277 

France?  When  she  finds  she  can't  get  out  of  him 
all  she  wants,  do  you  think  she's  going  to  let  him 
off?  I  suppose  she  struck  you  as  being  quite  the 
sort  who'd  prove  nobly  magnanimous!  Are  you 
so  blind  you  don't  see  exactly  what's  going  to 
happen?  She'll  ask  twice  as  much  now  as  she 
did  before;  and  the  moment  it's  clear  that  she  isn't 
going  to  get  it,  she'll  call  in  an  agent  of  police. 
She'll  get  her  money  in  a  separate  suit  and  send 
him  to  prison  to  do  it.  The  case  against  him  is 
positive;  there  isn't  a  shadow  of  hope  for  him. 
You  talk  of  being  with  him;  don't  you  see  how 
preposterous  that  is?  Do  you  imagine  they  en- 
courage family  housekeeping  in  French  prisons?" 

"Oh,  come,  this  won't  do!"  The  speaker  was 
Cresson  Ingle,  who  stepped  forward,  to  my  sur- 
prise; for  he  had  been  hovering  in  the  background 
wearing  an  expression  of  thorough  discomfort. 

"You're  going  much  too  far,"  he  said,  touching 
his  betrothed  upon  the  arm.  "My  dear  Elizabeth, 
there  is  no  use  exaggerating;  the  case  is  unpleasant 
enough  just  as  it  is." 

"In  what  have  I  exaggerated?"  she  demanded. 

"Why,  I  knew  Larrabee  Harman,"  he  returned. 
"I  knew  him  fairly  well.  I  went  as  far  as  Honolulu 


278  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

with  him,  when  he  and  some  of  his  heelers  started 
round  the  world;  and  I  remember  that  papers  were 
served  on  him  in  San  Francisco.  Mrs.  Harman 
had  made  her  application;  it  was  just  before  he 
sailed.  About  a  year  and  a  half  or  two  years  later 
I  met  him  again,  in  Paris.  He  was  in  pretty  bad 
shape;  seemed  hypnotised  by  this  Mariana  and 
afraid  as  death  of  her;  she  could  go  into  a  tantrum 
that  would  frighten  him  into  anything.  It  was 
a  joke — down  along  the  line  of  the  all-night  dancers 
and  cafes — that  she  was  going  to  marry  him;  and 
some  one  told  me  afterward  that  she  claimed  to 
have  brought  it  about.  I  suppose  it's  true;  bi 
there  is  no  question  of  his  having  married  her 
good  faith.  He  believed  that  the  divorce  hi 
been  granted;  he'd  offered  no  opposition  to  it  whj 
ever.  He  was  travelling  continually,  and  I  doi 
think  he  knew  much  of  what  was  going  on,  ev< 
right  around  him,  most  of  the  time.  He 
with  cognac  and  absinthe  in  the  morning,  you 
For  myself,  I  always  supposed  the  suit  had 
carried  through;  so  did  people  generally,  I  thii 
He'll  probably  have  to  stand  trial,  and  of  coui 
he's  technically  guilty,  but  I  don't  believe  h< 
be  convicted — though  I  must  say  it  would  hai 


CHAPTER  TWENTY  279 

been  a  most  devilish  good  thing  for  him  if  he  could 
have  been  got  out  of  France  before  la  Mursiana 
heard  the  truth.  Then  he  could  have  made  terms 
with  her  safely  at  a  distance — she'd  have  been 
powerless  to  injure  him  and  would  have  precious 
soon  come  to  time  and  been  glad  to  take  whatever 
he'd  give  her.  Now,  I  suppose,  that's  impossible, 
and  they'll  arrest  him  if  he  tries  to  budge.  But 
this  talk  of  prison  and  all  that  is  nonsense,  my 
dear  Elizabeth!" 

"You  admit  there  is  a  chance  of  it!"  she  re- 
torted. 

"I've  said  all  I  had  to  say,"  returned  Mr.  Ingle 
with  a  dubious  laugh.  "And  if  you  don't  mind,  I 
believe  I'll  wait  for  you  outside,  in  the  machine. 
I  want  to  look  at  the  gear-box." 

He  paused,  as  if  in  deference  to  possible  opposi- 
tion, and,  none  being  manifested,  went  hastily  from 
the  room  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  giving  me,  as  he 
carefully  closed  the  door,  a  glance  of  profound 
commiseration  over  his  shoulder. 

Miss  Elizabeth  had  taken  her  brother's  hand,  not 
with  the  effect  of  clinging  for  sympathy;  nor  had 
her  throwing  her  arms  about  him  produced  that 
effect;  one  could  as  easily  have  imagined  Brunhilda 


280  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

hiding  her  face  in  a  man's  coat-lapels.  George's 
sister  wept,  not  weakly:  she  was  on  the  defensive, 
but  not  for  herself. 

"Does  the  fact  that  he  may  possibly  escape  going 
to  prison" — she  addressed  her  cousin — "make  his 
position  less  scandalous,  or  can  it  make  the  man 
himself  less  detestable?" 

Mrs.  Harman  looked  at  her  steadily.  There  was 
a  long  and  sorrowful  pause. 

"Nothing  is  changed,"  she  ,-aid  finally;  her  eyes 
still  fixed  gravely  on  Miss  Elizabeth's. 

At  that,  the  other's  face  flamed  up,  and  she 
uttered  a  half-choked  exclamation.  "Oh,"  she 
cried — "you've  fallen  in  love  with  playing  the 
martyr;  it's  self-lovel  You  see  yourself  in  the  role! 
No  one  on  earth  could  make  me  believe  you're  in 
love  with  this  degraded  imbecile — all  that's  left  of 
the  wreck  of  a  vicious  life!  It  isn't  that!  It's  be- 
cause you  want  to  make  a  shining  example  of 
yourself;  you  want  to  get  down  on  your  knees  and 
wash  off  the  vileness  from  this  befouled  creature; 
you  want " 

"Madame!"  Keredec  interrupted  tremendously, 
"you  speak  out  of  no  knowledge!"  He  leaned  toward 
her  across  the  table,  which  shook  under  the  wei| 


CHAPTER  TWENTY  281 

of  his  arms.  "There  is  no  vileness;  no  one  who  is 
clean  remains  befouled  because  of  the  things  that 
are  gone." 

"They  do  not?"  She  laughed  hysterically,  and 
for  my  part,  I  sighed  in  despair — for  there  was  no 
stopping  him. 

"They  do  not,  indeed!  Do  you  know  the  rela- 
tion of  time  to  this  little  life  of  ours?  We  have 
only  the  present  moment;  your  consciousness  of 
that  is  your  existence.  Your  knowledge  of  each 
present  moment  as  it  passes — and  it  passes  so 
swiftly  that  each  word  I  speak  now  overlaps  it — 
yet  it  is  all  we  have.  For  all  the  rest,  for  what 
has  gone  by  and  what  is  yet  coming — that  has  no 
real  existence;  it  is  all  a  dream.  It  is  not  alive. 
It  is  not!  It  is — nothing!  So  the  soul  that  stands 
clean  and  pure  to-day  is  clean  and  pure — and  that 
is  all  there  is  to  say  about  that  soul!" 

"But  a  soul  with  evil  tendencies,"  Ward  began 
impatiently,  "if  one  must  meet  you  on  your  own 
ground " 

"Ha!  my  dear  sir,  those  evil  tendencies  would 
be  in  the  soiling  memories,  and  my  boy  is  free 
from  them." 

"He   went   toward   all   that   was   soiling   before. 


THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

Surely  you   can't  pretend  he  may  not  take  that 
direction  again?" 

"That,"  returned  the  professor  quickly,  "is  his 
to  choose.  If  this  lady  can  be  with  him  now,  he 
will  choose  right." 

"So!"  cried  Miss  Elizabeth,  "you  oner  her  the 
role  of  a  guide,  do  you?  First  she  is  to  be  his  com- 
papion  through  a  trial  for  bigamy  in  a  French 
court,  and,  if  he  is  acquitted,  his  nurse,  teacher, 
and  moral  preceptor?"  She  turned  swiftly  to  her 
cousin.  "That's  your  conception  of  a  woman's 
mission?" 

"I  haven't  any  mission,"  Mrs.  Harman  answered 
quietly.  "I've  never  thought  about  missions;  I 
only  know  I  belong  to  him;  that's  all  I  ever  thought 
about  it.  I  don't  pretend  to  explain  it,  or  make  it 
seem  reasonable.  And  when  I  met  him  again,  here, 
it  was — it  was — it  was  proved  to  me." 

"Proved?"  echoed  Miss  Elizabeth  incredulously. 

"Yes;  proved  as  certainly  as  the  sun  shining 
proves  that  it's  day." 

"Will  you  tell  us?" 

It  was  I  who  asked  the  question:  I  spoke  involun- 
tarily, but  she  did  not  seem  to  think  it  strai 
that  I  should  ask. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY  283 

"Oh,  when  I  first  met  him,"  she  said  tremulously, 
"I  was  frightened;  but  it  was  not  he  who  frightened 
me — it  was  the  rush  of  my  own  feeling.  I  did 
not  know  what  I  felt,  but  I  thought  I  might  die, 
and  he  was  so  like  himself  as  I  had  first  known 
him — but  so  changed,  too;  there  was  something 
so  wonderful  about  him,  something  that  must  make 
any  stranger  feel  sorry  for  him,  and  yet  it  is  beau- 
tiful—  She  stopped  for  a  moment  and  wiped  her 
eyes,  then  went  on  bravely:  "And  the  next  day  he 
came,  and  waited  for  me — I  should  have  come  here 
for  him  if  he  hadn't — and  I  fell  in  with  the  mis- 
take he  had  made  about  my  name.  You  see,  he'd 
heard  I  was  called  'Madame  d'Armand,'  and  I 
wanted  him  to  keep  on  thinking  that,  for  I  thought 
if  he  knew  I  was  Mrs.  Harman  he  might  find  out — 
She  paused,  her  lip  beginning  to  tremble.  "Oh, 
don't  you  see  why  I  didn't  want  him  to  know? 
I  didn't  want  him  to  suffer  as  he  would — as  he 
does  now,  poor  child! — but  most  of  all  I  wanted— 
I  wanted  to  see  if  he  would  fall  in  love  with  me 
again!  I  kept  him  from  knowing,  because,  if  he 
thought  I  was  a  stranger,  and  the  same  thing  hap- 
pened again — his  caring  for  me,  I  mean —  She 
had  begun  to  weep  now,  freely  and  openly,  but 


£84  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

not  from  grief.  "Oh!"  she  cried,  "don't  you  see 
how  it's  all  proven  to  me?" 

"I  see  how  it  has  deluded  you!"  said  Miss  Eliza- 
beth vehemently.  "I  see  what  a  rose-light  it  has 
thrown  about  this  creature;  but  it  won't  last,  thank 
God!  any  more  than  it  did  the  other  time.  The 
thing  is  for  you  to  come  to  your  senses  before— 

"Ah,  my  dear,  I  have  come  to  them  at  last  and 
for  ever!"  The  words  rang  full  and  strong,  though 
she  was  white  and  shaking,  and  heavy  tears  filled 
her  eyes.  "I  know  what  I  am  doing  now,  if  I  never 
knew  before!" 

"You  never  did  know — "  Miss  Ward  began,  but 
George  stopped  her. 

"Elizabeth!"  he  said  quickly.  "We  mustn't  go  on 
like  this;  it's  more  than  any  of  us  can  bear.  Come, 
let's  get  out  into  the  air;  let's  get  back  to  Quesnay. 
We'll  have  Ingle  drive  us  around  the  longer  way, 
by  the  sea."  He  turned  to  his  cousin.  "Louise,  you'll 
come  now?  If  not,  we'll  have  to  stay  here  with  you." 

"I'll  come,"  she  answered,  trying  bravely  to  stop 
the  tears  that  kept  rising  in  spite  of  her;  "if  you'll 
wait  till" — and  suddenly  she  flashed  through  them 
a  smile  so  charming  that  my  heart  ached  the  harder 
for  George — "till  I  can  stop  crying!" 


CHAPTER  XXI 

MR.  EARL  PERCY  and  I  sat  opposite  each 
other  at  dinner  that  evening.     Perhaps, 
for   charity's   sake,  I   should  add   that 
though  we  faced  each  other,  and,  indeed,  eyed  each 
other  solemnly  at  intervals,  we  partook  not  of  the 
same  repast,  having  each  his  own  table;  his  being 
set  in  the  garden  at  his  constant  station  near  the 
gallery  steps,  and  mine,  some  fifty  feet  distant,  upon 
my  own  veranda,  but  moved  out  from  behind  the 

honeysuckle  screen,  for  I  sat  alone  and  the  night 
i 
was  warm. 

To  analyse  my  impression  of  Mr.  Percy's  glances, 
I  cannot  conscientiously  record  that  I  found  favour 
in  his  eyes.  For  one  thing,  I  fear  he  may  not  have 
recalled  to  his  bosom  a  clarion  sentiment  (which 
!  doubtless  he  had  ofttimes  cheered  from  his  native 
gallery  in  softer  years):  the  honourable  declaration 
that  many  an  honest  heart  beats  beneath  a  poor 
man's  coat.  As  for  his  own  attire,  he  was  even  as 
the  lilies  of  Quesnay;  that  is  to  say,  I  beheld  upon 

him  the  same  formation  of  tie  that  I  had  seen  there, 

285 


286  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

the  same  sensuous  beauty  of  the  state  waistcoat, 
though  I  think  that  his  buttons  were,  if  anything,  ! 
somewhat  spicier  than  those  which  had  awed  me  at 
the  chateau.  And  when  we  simultaneously  reached 
the  fragrant  hour  of  coffee,  the  cigarette  case  that 
glittered  in  his  hand  was  one  for  which  some  lady- 
friend  of  his  (I  knew  intuitively)  must  have  given 
her  All — and  then  been  left  in  debt. 

Amedee  had  served  us  both;  Glouglou,  as  afore- 
time, attending  the  silent  "Grande  Suite,"  where 
the  curtains  were  once  more  tightly  drawn.  Mon- 
sieur Rameau  dined  with  his  client  in  her  own  salon, 
evidently;  at  least,  Victorine,  thefemme  de  chambre, 
passed  to  and  from  the  kitchen  in  that  direction, 
bearing  laden  trays.  When  Mr.  Percy's  cigarette 
had  been  lighted,  hesitation  marked  the  manner  of 
our  maitre  d'hotel;  plainly  he  wavered,  but  finally 
old  custom  prevailed;  abandoning  the  cigarette,  he 
chose  the  cigar,  and,  hastily  clearing  my  fashionable 
opponent's  table,  approached  the  pavilion  with  his 
most  conversational  face. 

I  greeted  him  indifferently,  but  with  hidd 
pleasure,  for  my  soul  (if  Keredec  is  right  and  I  have 
one)  lay  sorrowing.  I  needed  relief,  and  whatever 
else  Amedee  was,  he  was  always  that.  I  spoke  first : 


. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE  287 

"Amedee,  how  long  a  walk  is  it  from  Quesnay  to 
Pere  Baudry's?" 

"Monsieur,  about  three-quarters  of  an  hour  for 
a  good  walker,  one  might  say." 

"A  long  way  for  Jean  Ferret  to  go  for  a  cup  of 
cider,"  I  remarked  musingly. 

"Eh?  But  why  should  he?"  asked  Amedee 
blankly. 

"Why  indeed?  Surely  even  a  Norman  gardener 
lives  for  more  than  cider!  You  usually  meet  him 
there  about  noon,  I  believe?" 

Methought  he  had  the  grace  to  blush,  though 
there  is  an  everlasting  doubt  in  my  mind  that  it 
may  have  been  the  colour  of  the  candle-shade  pro- 
ducing that  illusion.  It  was  a  strange  thing  to  see, 
at  all  events,  and,  talcing  it  for  a  physiological  fact 
at  the  time,  I  let  my  willing  eyes  linger  upon  it  as 
long  as  it  (or  its  appearance)  was  upon  him. 

"You  were  a  little  earlier  than  usual  to-day," 
I  continued  finally,  full  of  the  marvel. 

"Monsieur?"     He  was  wholly  blank  again. 

"Weren't  you  there  about  eleven?  Didn't  you  go 
about  two  hours  after  Mr.  Ward  and  his  friends 
left  here?" 

He   scratched   his   head.     "I   believe  I   had   an 


288  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

errand  in  that  direction.  Eh?  Yes,  I  remember. 
Truly,  I  think  it  so  happened." 

"And  you  found  Jean  Ferret  there?" 

"Where,  monsieur?" 

"At  Pere  Baudry's." 

"No,  monsieur." 

"What?"  I  exclaimed. 

"No,  monsieur."  He  was  firm,  somewhat  re- 
proachful. 

"You  didn't  see  Jean  Ferret  this  morning?" 

"Monsieur?" 

"Amedee!" 

"Eh,  but  I  did  not  find  him  at  Pere  Baudry's! 
It  may  have  happened  that  I  stopped  there,  but  he 
did  not  come  until  some  time  after." 

"After  you  had  gone  away  from  Pere  Baudry's, 
you  mean?" 

"No,  monsieur;  after  I  arrived  there.    Truly." 

"Now  we  have  it!  And  you  gave  him  the  news 
of  all  that  had  happened  here?" 

"Monsieur!" 

A  world — no,  a  constellation,  a  universe! — of 
reproach  was  in  the  word. 

"I  retract  the  accusation,"  I  said  promptly.  "I 
meant  something  else." 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE  289 

"Upon  everything  that  takes  place  at  our  hotel 
here,  I  am  silent  to  all  the  world." 

"As  the  grave!"  I  said  with  enthusiasm.     "Truly 

—that  is  a  thing  well  known.     But  Jean  Ferret, 

jthen?    He  is  not  so  discreet;  I  have  suspected  that 

j  you  are  in  his  confidence.    At  times  you  have  even 

iiinted  as  much.     Can  you  tell  me  if  he  saw  the 

automobile  of  Monsieur  Ingle  when  it  came  back 

to  the  chateau  after  leaving  here?" 

"It  had  arrived  the  moment  before  he  de- 
parted." 

"Quite  so!    I  understand,"  said  I. 

"He  related  to  me  that  Mademoiselle  Ward 
tiad  the  appearance  of  agitation,  and  Madame 
i'Armand  that  of  pallor,  which  was  also  the  case 
with  Monsieur  Ward." 

"Therefore,"  I  said,  "Jean  Ferret  ran  all  the  way 
to  Pere  Baudry's  to  learn  from  you  the  reason  for 
this  agitation  and  this  pallor?" 

"But,  monsieur " 

"I  retract  again!"  I  cut  him  off — to  save  time. 
"What  other  news  had  he?" 

There  came  a  gleam  into  his  small,  infolded  eyes, 
|%  tiny  glitter  reflecting  the  mellow  candle-light,  but 
changing  it,  in  that  reflection,  to  a  cold  and  sinister 


290  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

point  of  steel.  It  should  have  warned  me,  but,  as 
he  paused,  I  repeated  my  question. 

"Monsieur,  people  say  everything,"  he  answered, 
frowning  as  if  deploring  what  they  said  in  some 
secret,  particular  instance.  "The  world  is  full  of 
idle  gossipers,  tale-bearers,  spreaders  of  scandal! 
And,  though  I  speak  with  perfect  respect,  all  the 
people  at  the  chateau  are  not  perfect  in  such  ways." 

"Do  you  mean  the  domestics?" 

"The  visitors!" 

"What  do  they  say?" 

"Eh,  well,  then,  they  say — but  no!"  He  con- 
triVed  a  masterly  pretense  of  pained  reluctance. 
"I  cannot " 

"Speak  out,"  I  commanded,  piqued  by  his^shilly- 
shallying.  "What  do  they  say?" 

"Monsieur,  it  is  about" — he  shifted  his  weight 
from  one  leg  to  the  other — "it  is  about — about  that 
beautiful  Mademoiselle  Elliott  who  sometimes  comes 
here." 

This  was  so  far  from  what  I  had  expected  that  I 
was  surprised  into  a  slight  change  of  attitude, 
which  all  too  plainly  gratified  him,  though  he  made 
an  effort  to  conceal  it.  "Well,"  I  said  uneasily, 
"what  do  they  find  to  say  of  Mademoiselle  Elliott?" 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ON£ 

"They  say  that  her  painting  is  only  a  ruse  to 


see  monsieur." 


"To  see  Monsieur  Saffren,  yes." 

"But,  no!"  he  cried.    "That  is  not " 

"Yes,  it  is,"  I  assured  him  calmly.  "As  you 
know,  Monsieur  Saffren  is  very,  very  handsome,  and 
Mademoiselle  Elliott,  being  a  painter,  is  naturally 
anxious  to  look  at  him  from  time  to  time." 

"You  are  sure?"  he  said  wistfully,  even  plain- 
tively. "That  is  not  the  meaning  Jean  Ferret 
put  upon  it." 

"He  was  mistaken." 

"It  may  be,  it  may  be,"  he  returned,  greatly 
crestfallen,  picking  up  his  tray  and  preparing  to 
go.  "But  Jean  Ferret  was  very  positive." 

"And  I  am  even  more  so!" 

"Then  that  malicious  maid  of  Mademoiselle 
Ward's  was  mistaken  also,"  he  sighed,  "when  she 
said  that  now  a  marriage  is  to  take  place  between 
Mademoiselle  Ward  and  Monsieur  Ingle 

"Proceed,"  I  bade  him. 

He  moved  a  few  feet  nearer  the  kitchen.  "The 
malicious  woman  said  to  Jean  Ferret — "  He  paused 
and  coughed.  "It  was  in  reference  to  those  Italian 
jewels  monsieur  used  to  send " 


292  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

"What  about  them?"  I  asked  ominously. 

"The  woman  says  that  Mademoiselle  Ward- 
he  increased  the  distance  between  us — "that  now 
she   should   give    them    to    Mademoiselle    Elliott! 
Good  night,  monsieur!" 

His  entrance  into  the  kitchen  was  precipitate.  I 
sank  down  again  into  the  wicker  chair  (from  which 
I  had  hastily  risen)  and  contemplated  the  stars. 
But  the  short  reverie  into  which  I  then  fell  was 
interrupted  by  Mr.  Percy,  who,  sauntering  leisurely 
about  the  garden,  paused  to  address  me. 

"You  folks  thinks  you  was  all  to  the  gud,  gittin* 
them  trunks  off,  what?" 

"You  speak  in  mysterious  numbers,"  I  returned, 
having  no  comprehension  of  his  meaning. 

"I  suppose  you  don5  know  nothin'  about  it,"  he 
laughed  satirically.  "You  didn'  go  over  to  Lisieux 
'saft'noon  to  ship  'em?  Oh,  no,  not  you!" 

"I  went  for  a  long  walk  this  afternoon,  Mr. 
Percy.  Naturally,  I  couldn't  have  walked  so  far 
as  Lisieux  and  back:" 

"Luk  here,  m'friend,"  he  said  sharply — "I  reco'- 
nise  'at  you're  tryin'  t'  play  your  own  hand,  but 
I  ast  you  as  man  to  man:  Do  you  think  you  got 
any  chanst  t'  git  that  feller  off  t'  Paris?" 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE  293 

"Z>o  you  think  it  will  rain  to-night?"  I  in- 
quired. 

The  light  of  a  reflecting  lamp  which  hung  on 
the  wall  near  the  archway  enabled  me  to  perceive  a 
bitter  frown  upon  his  forehead.  "When  a  gentleman 
asts  a  question  as  a  gen'leman,"  he  said,  his  voice 
expressing  a  noble  pathos,  "I  can't  see  no  call  for 
no  other  gen'leman  to  go  an'  play  the  smart  Aleck 
and  not  answer  him." 

In  simple  dignity  he  turned  his  back  upon  me 
and  strolled  to  the  other  end  of  the  courtyard, 
leaving  me  to  the  renewal  of  my  reverie. 

It  was  not  a  happy  one. 

My  friends — old  and  new — I  saw  inextricably 
caught  in  a  tangle  of  cross-purposes,  miserably  and 
hopelessly  involved  in  a  situation  for  which  I  could 
i  predict  no  possible  relief.  I  was  able  to  understand 
now  the  beauty  as  well  as  the  madness  of  Keredec's 
plan;  and  I  had  told  him  so  (after  the  departure 
of  the  Quesnay  party),  asking  his  pardon  for  my 
brusquerie  of  the  morning.  But  the  towering  edifice 
his  hopes  had  erected  was  now  tumbled  about 
his  ears:  he  had  failed  to  elude  the  Mursiana. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  of  her  absolute  control 
of  the  situation.  That  was  evident  in  the  every 


294  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

step  of  the  youth  now  confidently  parading  before 
me. 

Following  his  active  stride  with  my  eye,  I  ob- 
served him  in  the  act  of  saluting,  with  a  gracious 
nod  of  his  bare  head,  some  one,  invisible  to  me, 
who  was  approaching  from  the  road.  Immediately 
after — and  altogether  with  the  air  of  a  person  merely 
"happening  in" — a  slight  figure,  clad  in  a  long  coat, 
a  short  skirt,  and  a  broad-brimmed,  veil-bound 
brown  hat,  sauntered  casually  through  the  archway 
and  came  into  full  view  in  the  light  of  the  reflector. 

I  sprang  to  my  feet  and  started  toward  her, 
uttering  an  exclamation  which  I  was  unable  to 
stifle,  though  I  tried  to. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Percy,"  she  said  cheerily. 
"It's  the  most  exuberant  night.  You're  quite  hearty, 
I  hope?" 

"Takin*  a  walk,  I  see,  little  lady,"  he  observed 
with  genial  patronage. 

"Oh,  not  just  for  that,"  she  returned.  "It's 
more  to  see  him.'9  She  nodded  to  me,  and,  as  I 
reached  her,  carelessly  gave  me  her  left  hand.  "You 
know  I'm  studying  with  him,"  she  continued 
Mr.  Percy,  exhibiting  a  sketch-book  under  her  ai 
"I  dropped  over  to  get  a  criticism." 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE  295 

"Oh,  drawin'-lessons?"  said  Mr.  Precy  tolerantly. 
''Well,  don'  lemme  interrup'  ye." 

He  moved  as  if  to  withdraw  toward  the  steps, 
}ut  she  detained  him  with  a  question.  "You're 
spending  the  rest  of  the  summer  here?" 

"That  depends,"  he  answered  tersely. 

"I  hear  you  have  some  passionately  interesting 
,'riends." 

"Where  did  you  hear  that?" 

"Ah,  don't  you  know?"  she  responded  commiser- 
itingly.  "This  is  the  most  scandalously  gossipy 
neighbourhood  in  France.  My  dear  young  man, 
3very  one  from  here  to  Timbuctu  knows  all  about 
t  by  this  time!" 

"All  about  what?" 

"About  the  excitement  you're  such  a  valuable 
Dart  of;  about  your  wonderful  Spanish  friend  and 
low  she  claims  the  strange  young  man  here  for 
ler  husband." 

"They'll  know  more'n  that,  I  expec',"  he  re- 
turned with  a  side  glance  at  me,  "before  very 
ong." 

"Every  one  thinks  I  am  so  interesting,"  she 
•attled  on  artlessly,  "because  I  happened  to  meet 
/ou  in  the  woods.  I've  held  quite  a  levee  all  day. 


296  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

In  a  reflected  way  it  makes  a  heroine  of  me,  you 
see,  because  you  are  one  of  the  very  most  prominent 
figures  in  it  all.  I  hope  you  won't  think  I've  been 
too  bold,"  she  pursued  anxiously,  "in  claiming 
that  I  really  am  one  of  your  acquaintances?" 

"That'll  be  all  right,"  he  politely  assured  her. 

"I  am  so  glad."  Her  laughter  rang  out  gaily. 
"Because  I've  been  talking  about  you  as  if  we  were 
the  oldest  friends,  and  I'd  hate  to  have  them  find 
me  out.  I've  told  them  everything — about  your 
appearance  you  see,  and  how  your  hair  was  parted, 
and  how  you  were  dressed,  and — 

"Luk  here,"  he  interrupted,  suddenly  discharging 
his  Bowery  laugh,  "did  you  tell  'em  how  he  was 
dressed?"  He  pointed  a  jocular  finger  at  me.  "That 
wud  'a'  made  a  hit!" 

"No;  we  weren't  talking  of  him." 

"Why  not?  He's  in  it,  too.  Bullieve  me,  he 
thinks  he  is!" 

"In  the  excitement,  you  mean?" 

"Right!"  said  Mr.  Percy  amiably.  "He  goes 
round  holdin'  Rip  Van  Winkle  Keredec's  hand  when 
the  ole  man's  cryin';  helpin'  him  sneak  his  trunks 
off  t'  Paris — playin'  the  hired  man  gener'ly.  Oh, 
he  thinks  he's  quite  the  boy,  in  this  trouble!" 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE  297 

"I'm  afraid  it's  a  small  part,"  she  returned, 
"compared  to  yours." 

"Oh,  I  hold  my  end  up,  I  guess." 

"I  should  think  you'd  be  so  worn  out  and  sleepy 
you  couldn't  hold  your  head  up!" 

"Who?  Me?  Not  t'-night,  m'little  friend.  I 
tuk  my  sleep  's  aft'noon  and  let  Rameau  do  the 
Sherlock  a  little  while." 

She  gazed  upon  him  with  unconcealed  admiration. 
"You  are  wonderful,"  she  sighed  faintly,  and  "Won- 
derful!" she  breathed  again.  "How  prosaic  are 
drawing-lessons,"  she  continued,  touching  my  arm 
and  moving  with  me  toward  the  pavilion,  "after 
listening  to  a  man  of  action  like  that!" 

Mr.  Percy,  establishing  himself  comfortably  in  a 
garden  chair  at  the  foot  of  the  gallery  steps,  was 
heard  to  utter  a  short  cough  as  he  renewed  the 
light  of  his  cigarette. 

My  visitor  paused  upon  my  veranda,  humming, 
"Quand  1' Amour  Meurt"  while  I  went  within  and 
lit  a  lamp.  "Shall  I  bring  the  light  out  there?" 
I  asked,  but,  turning,  found  that  she  was  already 
in  the  room. 

"The  sketch-book  is  my  duenna,"  she  said,  sink- 


298  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

ing  into  a  chair  upon  one  side  of  the  centre  table, 
upon  which  I  placed  the  lamp.  "Lessons  are  un- 
questionable, at  any  place  or  time.  Behold  Ihe 
beautiful  posies!"  She  spread  the  book  open  on 
the  table  between  us,  as  I  seated  myself  opposite 
her,  revealing  some  antique  coloured  smudges  of 
flowers.  "Elegancies  of  Eighteen-Forty !  Isn't  that 
a  survival  of  the  period  when  young  ladies  had 
'accomplishments/  though !  I  found  it  at  the  chateau 
and " 

"Never  mind,"  I  said.  "Don't  you  know  that  you 
can't  ramble  over  the  country  alone  at  this  time 
of  night?" 

"If  you  speak  any  louder,"  she  said,  with  some 
urgency  of  manner,  "you'll  be  'hopelessly  com- 
promised socially,'  as  Mrs.  Alderman  McGinnis  and 
the  Duchess  of  Gwythyl-Corners  say" — she  directed 
my  glance,  by  one  of  her  own,  through  the  open 
door  to  Mr.  Percy — "because  he'll  hear  you  and 
know  that  the  sketch-book  was  only  a  shallow 
pretext  of  mine  to  see  you.  Do  be  a  little  man- 
fully self-contained,  or  you'll  get  us  talked  about! 
And  as  for  'this  time  of  night,'  I  believe  it's  almost 
half  past  nine." 

"Does  Miss  Ward  know " 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE  299 

"Do  you  think  it  likely?  One  of  the  most  con- 
venient things  about  a  chateau  is  the  number  of 
ways  to  get  out  of  it  without  being  seen.  I  had  a 
choice  of  eight.  So  I  'suffered  fearfully  from  neu- 
ralgia/ dined  in  my  own  room,  and  sped  through 
the  woods  to  my  honest  forester."  She  nodded 
brightly.  "That's  you!" 

"You  weren't  afraid  to  come  through  the  woods 
alone?"  I  asked,  uncomfortably  conscious  that  her 
gaiety  met  a  dull  response  from  me. 

"No." 

"But  if  Miss  Ward  finds  that  you're  not  at  the 
chateau " 

"She  won't;  she  thinks  I'm  asleep.  She  brought 
me  up  a  sleeping-powder  herself." 

"She  thinks  you  took  it?" 

"She  knows  I  did,"  said  Miss  Elliott.  "I'm  full 
of  it!  And  that  will  be  the  reason — if  you  notice 
that  I'm  particularly  nervous  or  excited." 

"You  seem  all  of  that,"  I  said,  looking  at  her 
eyes,  which  were  very  wide  and  very  brilliant. 
"However,  I  believe  you  always  do." 

"Ah!"  she  smiled.  "I  knew  you  thought  me 
atrocious  from  the  first.  You  find  myriads  of 
objections  to  me,  don't  you?" 


300  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

I  had  forgotten  to  look  away  from  her  eyes,  and 
I  kept  on  forgetting.  (The  same  thing  had  happened 
several  times  lately;  and  each  time,  by  a  some- 
what painful  coincidence,  I  remembered  my  age 
at  precisely  the  instant  I  remembered  to  look  away.) 
"Dazzling"  is  a  good  old-fashioned  word  for  eyes 
like  hers;  at  least  it  might  define  their  effect  on  me. 

"If  I  did  manage  to  object  to  you,"  I  said 
slowly,  "it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  me — 
wouldn't  it?" 

"Oh,  I've  won!"  she  cried. 

"Won?"  I  echoed. 

"Yes.  I  laid  a  wager  with  myself  that  I'd  have 
a  pretty  speech  from  you  before  I  went  out  of  your 
life" — she  checked  a  laugh,  and  concluded  thrill- 
ingly — "forever!  I  leave  Quesnay  to-morrow!" 

"Your  father  has  returned  from  America?" 

"Oh  dear,  no,"  she  murmured.  "I'll  be  quite  at 
the  world's  mercy.  I  must  go  up!  to  Paris  and 
retire  from  public  life  until  he  does  come.  I  shall 
take  the  vows — in  some  obscure  but  respectable 
pension" 

"You  can't  endure  the  life  at  the  chateau  any 
longer?" 

"It  won't  endure  me  any  longer.     If  I  shouldn't 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE  301 

go  to-morrow  I'd  be  put  out,  I  think — after  to- 
night!" 

"But  you  intimated  that  no  one  would  know  about 
to-night!" 

"The  night  isn't  over  yet,"  she  replied  enig- 
matically. 

"It  almost  is — for  you,"  I  said;  "because  in 
ten  minutes  I  shall  take  you  back  to  the  chateau 
gates." 

She  offered  no  comment  on  this  prophecy,  but 
gazed  at  me  thoughtfully  and  seriously  for  several 
moments.  "I  suppose  you  can  imagine,"  she  said, 
in  a  tone  that  threatened  to  become  tremulous, 
"what  sort  of  an  afternoon  we've  been  having  up 
there?" 

"Has  it  been — "  I  began. 

"Oh,  heart-breaking!  Louise  came  to  my  room 
as  soon  as  they  got  back  from  here,  this  morning, 
and  told  me  the  whole  pitiful  story.  But  they 
didn't  let  her  stay  there  long,  poor  woman!" 

"They?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  Elizabeth  and  her  brother.  TheyVe  bee* 
at  her  all  afternoon — off  and  on." 

"To  do  what?" 

"To  'save  herself,'  so  they  call  it.     They're  in- 


302  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

sisting  that  she  must  not  see  her  poor  husband 
again.  They're  determined  she  sha'n't." 

"But  George  wouldn't  worry  her,"  I  objected. 

"Oh,  wouldn't  he?"  The  girl  laughed  sadly.  "I 
don't  suppose  he  could  help  it,  he's  in  such  a  state 
himself,  but  between  him  and  Elizabeth  it's  hard  to 
see  how  poor  Mrs.  Harman  lived  through  the  day." 

"Well,"  I  said  slowly,  "I  don't  see  that  they're 
not  right.  She  ought  to  be  kept  out  of  all  this 
as  much  as  possible;  and  if  her  husband  has  to  go 
through  a  trial ; 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  something,"  Miss  Elliott 
interrupted.  "How  much  do  you  like  Mr.  Ward?" 

"He's  an  old  friend.  I  suppose  I  like  my  old 
friends  in  about  the  same  way  that  other  people 
like  theirs." 

"How  much  do  you  like  Mr.  Saffren — I  mean 
Mr.  Harman?" 

"Oh,  thai!"  I  groaned.  "If  I  could  still  call 
him  'Oliver  Saffren/  if  I  could  still  think  of  him 
as  'Oliver  Saffren,'  it  would  be  easy  to  answer. 
I  never  was  so  'drawn'  to  a  man  in  my  life  before. 
But  when  I  think  of  him  as  Larrabee  Harman,  I 
am  full  of  misgivings." 

"Louise  isn't,"  she  put  in  eagerly,  and  with  some- 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE  303 

thing  oddly  like  the  manner  of  argument.  "His 
wife  isn't!" 

"Oh,  I  know.  Perhaps  one  reason  is  that  she 
never  saw  him  at  quite  his  worst.  I  did.  I  had 
only  two  glimpses  of  him — of  the  briefest — but  they 
inspired  me  with  such  a  depth  of  dislike  that  I 
can't  tell  you  how  painful  it  was  to  discover  that 
'Oliver  Saffren' — this  strange,  pathetic,  attractive 
friend  of  mine — is  the  same  man." 

"Oh,  but  he  isn't!"  she  exclaimed  quickly. 

"Keredec  says  he  is,"  I  laughed  helplessly. 

"So  does  Louise,"  returned  Miss  Elliott,  disdain- 
ing consistency  in  her  eagerness.  "And  she's  right 
—and  she  cares  more  for  him  than  she  ever  did!" 

"I  suppose  she  does." 

"Are  you—  '  the  girl  began,  then  stopped  for  a 
moment,  looking  at  me  steadily.  "Aren't  you  a 
little  in  love  with  her?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered  honestly.     "Aren't  you?" 

"That's  what  I  wanted  to  know!"  she  said;  and 
i 

as  she  turned  a  page  in  the  sketch-book  for  the 
benefit  of  Mr.  Percy,  I  saw  that  her  hand  had 
begun  to  tremble. 

"Why?"  I  asked,  leaning  toward  her  across  the 
table. 


304  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

"Because,  if  she  were  involved  in  some  under- 
taking— something  that,  if  it  went  wrong,  would 
endanger  her  happiness  and,  I  think,  even  her 
life — for  it  might  actually  kill  her  if  she  failed, 
and  brought  on  a  worse  catastrophe— 

"Yes?"  I  said  anxiously,  as  she  paused  again. 

"You'd  help  her?"  she  said. 

"I  would  indeed,"  I  assented  earnestly.  "I  told 
her  once  I'd  do  anything  in  the  world  for  her." 

"Even  if  it  involved  something  that  George  Ward 
might  never  forgive  you  for?" 

"I  said,  'anything  in  the  world/  "  I  returned, 
perhaps  a  little  huskily.  "I  meant  all  of  that.  If 
there  is  anything  she  wants  me  to  do,  I  shall  do 
it." 

She  gave  a  low  cry  of  triumph,  but  immediately 
checked  it.  Then  she  leaned  far  over  the  table, 
her  face  close  above  the  book,  and,  tracing  the 
outline  of  an  uncertain  lily  with  her  small,  brown- 
gloved  forefinger,  as  though  she  were  consulting  me 
on  the  drawing,  "I  wasn't  afraid  to  come  through 
the  woods  alone,"  she  said,  in  a  very  low  voice, 
"because  I  wasn't  alone.  Louise  came  with  me." 

"What?"  I  gasped.     "Where  is  she?" 

"At  the  Baudry  cottage  down  the  road.     They 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE  .'505 

won't  miss  her  at  the  chateau  until  morning;  I 
locked  her  door  on  the  outside,  and  if  they  go  to 
bother  her  again — though  I  don't  think  they  will— 
they'll  believe  she's  fastened  it  on  the  inside  and  is 
asleep.  She  managed  to  get  a  note  to  Keredec  late 
this  afternoon;  it  explained  everything,  and  he  had 
some  trunks  carried  out  the  rear  gate  of  the  inn 
and  carted  over  to  Lisieux  to  be  shipped  to  Paris 
from  there.  It  is  to  be  supposed — or  hoped,  at 
least — that  this  woman  and  her  people  will  believe 
that  means  Professor  Keredec  and  Mr.  Harman  will 
try  to  get  to  Paris  in  the  same  way." 

"So,"  I  said,  "that's  what  Percy  meant  about 
the  trunks.  I  didn't  understand." 

"He's  on  watch,  you  see,"  she  continued,  turning 
a  page  to  another  drawing.  "He  means  to  sit  up 
all  night,  or  he  wouldn't  have  slept  this  afternoon. 
He's  not  precisely  the  kind  to  be  in  the  habit  of 
afternoon  naps — Mr.  Percy!"  She  laughed  ner- 
vously. "That's  why  it's  almost  absolutely  necessary 
for  us  to  have  you.  If  we  have — the  thing  is  so 
simple  that  it's  certain." 

"If  you  have  me  for  what?"  I  asked. 

"If  you'll  help" — and,  as  she  looked  up,  her 
eyes,  now  very  close  to  mine,  were  dazzling  indeed 


306  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

— "I'll  adore  you  for  ever  and  ever!  Oh,  much 
longer  than  you'd  like  me  to!" 

"You  mean  she's  going  to— 

"I  mean  that  she's  going  to  run  away  with  him 
again,"  she  whispered. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

x 

AT  midnight  there  was  no  mistaking  the  pal- 
pable uneasiness  with  which  Mr.  Percy, 
faithful  sentry,  regarded  the  behaviour  of 
Miss  Elliott  and  myself  as  we  sat  conversing  upon 
the  veranda  of  the  pavilion.  It  was  not  fear  for  the 
security  of  his  prisoner  which  troubled  him,  bur 
the  unseemliness  of  the  young  woman's  persistence 
in  remaining  to  this  hour  under  an  espionage  no 
more  matronly  than  that  of  a  sketch-book  abandoned 
on  the  table  when  we  had  come  out  to  the  open. 
The  youth  had  veiled  his  splendours  with  more 
splendour:  a  long  overcoat  of  so  glorious  a  plaid  it 
paled  the  planets  above  us;  and  he  wandered  rest- 
lessly about  the  garden  in  this  refulgence,  glancing 
at  us  now  and  then  with  what,  in  spite  of  the  in- 
sufficient revelation  of  the  starlight,  we  both  recog- 
nised as  a  chilling  disapproval.  The  lights  of  the 
inn  were  all  out;  the  courtyard  was  dark.  The 
Spanish  woman  and  Monsieur  Rameau  had  made 
their  appearance  for  a  moment,  half  an  hour  earlier, 

to  exchange  a  word  with  their  fellow  vigilant,  a: HI, 

307 


308  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

soon  after,  the  extinguishing  of  the  lamps  in  their 
respective  apartments  denoted  their  retirement  for 
the  night.  In  the  "Grande  Suite"  all  had  been 
dark  and  silent  for  an  hour.  About  the  whole  place 
the  only  sign  of  life,  aside  from  those  signs  furnished 
by  our  three  selves,  was  a  rhythmical  sound  from 
an  open  window  near  the  kitchen,  where  incon- 
trovertibly  slumbered  our  maitre  d'hbtel  after  the 
cares  of  the  day. 

Upon  the  occasion  of  our  forest  meeting  Mr. 
Percy  had  signified  his  desire  to  hear  some  talk  of 
Art.  I  think  he  had  his  fill  to-night — and  more; 
for  that  was  the  subject  chosen  by  my  dashing 
companion,  and  vivaciously  exploited  until  our 
awaited  hour  was  at  hand.  Heaven  knows  what 
nonsense  I  prattled,  I  do  not;  I  do  not  think  I  knew 
at  the  time.  I  talked  mechanically,  trying  hard 
not  to  betray  my  increasing  excitement. 

Under  cover  of  this  traduction  of  the  Muse  I 
served,  I  kept  going  over  and  over  the  details  of 
Louise  Harman's  plan,  as  the  girl  beside  me  had 
outlined  it,  bending  above  the  smudgy  sketch-book. 
"To  make  them  think  the  flight  is  for  Paris,"  she 
had  urged,  "to  Paris  by  way  of  Lisieux.  To  make 
that  man  yonder  believe  that  it  is  toward  Lisieux, 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO  309 

while  they  turn  at  the  crossroads,  and  drive  across 
the  country  to  Trouville  for  the  morning  boat  to 
Havre." 

It  was  simple;  that  was  its  great  virtue.  If  they 
were  well  started,  they  were  safe;  and  well  started 
meant  only  that  Larrabee  Harman  should  leave  the 
inn  without  an  alarm,  for  an  alarm  sounded  too 
soon  meant  "racing  and  chasing  on  Canoby  Lea," 
before  they  could  get  out  of  the  immediate  neigh- 
bourhood. But  with  two  hours'  start,  and  the  pur- 
suit spending  most  of  its  energy  in  the  wrong 
direction — that  is,  toward  Lisieux  and  Paris — they 
would  be  on  the  deck  of  the  French-Canadian  liner 
to-morrow  noon,  sailing  out  of  the  harbour  of  Le 
Havre,  with  nothing  but  the  Atlantic  Ocean  between 
:hem  and  the  St.  Lawrence. 

I  thought  of  the  woman  who  dared  this  flight 

lor  her  lover,  of  the  woman  who  came  full-armed 

petween    him    and    the    world,    a    Valkyr    winging 

lown  to  bear  him  away  to  a  heaven  she  would 

nake  for  him  herself.     Gentle  as  she  was,   there 

nust  have  been  a  Valkyr  in  her  somewhere,  or  she 

mild  not  attempt  this.     She  swept  in,  not  only 

>etween  him  and  the  world,  but  between  him  and 

he  destroying  demons  his  own  sins  had  raised  to 


310  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

beset  him.  There,  I  thought,  was  a  whole  love; 
or  there  she  was  not  only  wife  but  mother  to 
him. 

And  I  remembered  the  dream  of  her  I  had  before 
I  ever  saw  her,  on  that  first  night  after  I  came  down 
to  Normandy,  when  Amedee's  talk  of  "Madame 
d'Armand"  had  brought  her  into  my  thoughts.  I 
remembered  that  I  had  dreamed  of  finding  her 
statue,  but  it  was  veiled  and  I  could  not  uncover 
it.  And  to-night  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  veil  had 
lifted,  and  the  statue  was  a  figure  of  Mercy  in  the 
beautiful  likeness  of  Louise  Harman.  Then  Keredec 
was  wrong,  optimist  as  he  was,  since  a  will  such  as 
hers  could  save  him  she  loved,  even  from  his  own 
acts. 

"And  when  you  come  to  Monticelli's  first  style- 
Miss  Elliott's  voice  rose  a  little,  and  I  caught  the 
sound  of  a  new  thrill  vibrating  in  it— -"you  find 
a  hundred  others  of  his  epoch  doing  it  quite  as 
well,  not  a  bit  of  a  bit  less  commonplace — 

She  broke  off  suddenly,  and  looking  up,  as  I  had 
fifty  times  in  the  last  twenty  minutes,  I  saw  that  a 
light  shone  from  Keredec's  window. 

"I  dare  say  they  are  commonplace,"  I  remarked, 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO  311 

•ising.  "But  now,  if  you  will  permit  me,  I'll  offer 
,rou  my  escort  back  to  Quesnay." 

I  went  into  my  room,  put  on  my  cap,  lit  a  lantern, 
ind  returned  with  it  to  the  veranda.  "If  you  are 
eady?"  I  said. 

"Oh,  quite,"  she  answered,  and  we  crossed  the 
garden  as  far  as  the  steps. 

Mr.  Percy  signified  his  approval. 

"Gunna  see  the  little  lady  home,  are  you?"  he 
aid  graciously.  "I  was  thinkin'  it  was  about  time, 
n'self!" 

The  salon  door  of  the  "Grand  Suite"  opened, 
ibove  me,  and  at  the  sound,  the  youth  started, 
pringing  back  to  see  what  it  portended,  but  I  ran 
quickly  up  the  steps.  Keredec  stood  in  the  door- 
ray,  bare-headed  and  in  his  shirt-sleeves;  in  one  hand 
held  a  travelling-bag,  which  he  immediately  gave 
ne,  setting  his  other  for  a  second  upon  my  shoulder. 

"Thank  you,  my  good,  good  friend,"  he  said 
rith  an  emotion  in  his  big  voice  which  made  me 
lad  of  what  I  was  doing.  He  went  back  into  the 
oom,  closing  the  door,  and  I  descended  the  steps 
s  rapidly  as  I  had  run  up  them.  Without  pausing, 

started  for  the  rear  of  the  courtyard,  Miss  Elliott 
ccompanying  me. 


312  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

The  sentry  had  watched  these  proceedings  open- 
mouthed,  more  mystified  than  alarmed.  "Luk  here," 
he  said,  "I  want  t'  know  whut  this  means." 

"Anything  you  choose  to  think  it  means,"  I 
laughed,  beginning  to  walk  a  little  more  rapidly. 
He  glanced  up  at  the  windows  of  the  "Grande 
Suite,"  which  were  again  dark,  and  began  to  follow 
us  slowly.  "What  you  gut  in  that  grip?"  he 
asked. 

"You  don't  think  we're  carrying  off  Mr.  Harman?" 

"I  reckon  he's  in  his  room  all  right,"  said  the 
youth  grimly;  "unless  he's  flew  out.  But  I  want  t' 
know  what  you  think  y're  doin'?" 

"Just  now,"  I  replied,  "I'm  opening  thi§ 
door." 

This  was  a  fact  he  could  not  question.  We  emerged 
at  the  foot  of  a  lane  behind  the  inn;  it  was  long  and 
narrow,  bordered  by  stone  walls,  and  at  the  other 
end  debouched  upon  a  road  which  passed  the  rear 
of  the  Baudry  cottage. 

Miss  Elliott  took  my  arm,  and  we  entered 
lane. 

Mr.  Percy  paused  undecidedly.    "I  want  t'  know 
whut  you  think  y're  doin'?"  he  repeated  angri 
calling  after  us. 


. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO  313 

"It's  very  simple,"  I  called  in  turn.  "Can't  I  do 
an  errand  for  a  friend?  Can't  I  even  carry  his 
travelling-bag  for  him,  without  going  into  ex- 
planations to  everybody  I  happen  to  meet?  And," 
I  added,  permitting  some  anxiety  to  be  marked  in 
my  voice,  "I  think  you  may  as  well  go  back.  We're 
not  going  far  enough  to  need  a  guard." 

Mr.  Percy  allowed  an  oath  to  escape  him,  and  we 
heard  him  muttering  to  himself.  Then  his  foot- 
steps sounded  behind  us. 

"He's  coming!"  Miss  Elliott  whispered,  with 
nervous  exultation,  looking  over  her  shoulder.  "He's 
going  to  follow." 

"He  was  sure  to,"  said  I. 

We  trudged  briskly  on,  followed  at  some  fifty 
paces  by  the  perturbed  watchman.  Presently  I 
heard  my  companion  utter  a  sigh  so  profound  that 
it  was  a  whispered  moan. 

"What  is  it?"  I  murmured. 

"Oh,  it's  the  thought  of  Quesnay  and  to-morrow; 
facing  them  with  this!"  she  quavered.  "Louise  has 
written  a  letter  for  me  to  give  them,  but  I'll  have 
to  tell  them " 

"Not  alone,"  I  whispered.  "I'll  be  there  when 
you  come  down  from  your  room  in  the  morning." 


314  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

We  were  embarked  upon  a  singular  adventure, 
not  unattended  by  a  certain  danger;  we  were  tingling 
with  a  hundred  apprehensions,  occupied  with  the 
vital  necessity  of  drawing  the  little  spy  after  us— 
and  that  was  a  strange  moment  for  a  man  (and  an 
elderly  painter-man  of  no  mark,  at  that!)  to  hear 
himself  called  what  I  was  called  then,  in  a  tremulous 
whisper  close  to  my  ear.  Of  course  she  has  denied 
it  since;  nevertheless,  she  said  it — twice,  for  I  pre- 
tended not  to  hear  her  the  first  time.  I  made  no 
answer,  for  something  in  the  word  she  called  me, 
and  in  her  seeming  to  mean  it,  made  me  choke  up 
so  that  I  could  not  even  whisper;  but  I  made  up 
my  mind  that,  after  that,  if  this  girl  saw  Mr.  Earl 
Percy  on  his  way  back  to  the  inn  before  she  wished 
him  to  go,  it  would  be  because  he  had  killed  me. 

We  were  near  the  end  of  the  lane  when  the  neigh 
of  a  horse  sounded  sonorously  from  the  road  be- 
yond. 

Mr.  Percy  came  running  up  swiftly  and  darted 
by  us. 

"Who's  that?"  he  called  loudly.  "Who's  that  in 
the  cart  yonder?" 

I  set  my  lantern  on  the  ground  close  to  the  wall, 
and  at  the  same  moment  a  horse  and  cart  drew 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO  315 

up  on  the  road  at  the  end  of  the  lane,  showing 
against  the  starlight.  It  was  Pere  Baudry's  best 
horse,  a  stout  gray,  that  would  easily  enough  make 
Trouville  by  daylight.  A  woman's  figure  and  a 
man's  (the  latter  that  of  Pere  Baudry  himself) 
could  be  made  out  dimly  on  the  seat  of  the 
cart. 

"Who  is  it,  I  say?"  shouted  our  excited  friend. 
"What  kind  of  a  game  d'ye  think  y're  puttin'  up 
on  me  here?" 

He  set  his  hand  on  the  side  of  the  cart  and 
sprang  upon  the  hub  of  the  wheel.  A  glance  at 
the  occupants  satisfied  him. 

"Mrs.  Harman!"  he  yelled.  "Mrs.  Harman!" 
He  leaped  down  into  the  road.  "I  knowed  I  was 
a  fool  to  come  away  without  wakin'  up  Rameau. 
But  you  haven't  beat  us  yet!" 

He  drove  back  into  the  lane,  but  just  inside  its 
entrance  I  met  him. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  I  asked. 

"Back  to  the  pigeon-house  in  a  hurry.  There's 
devilment  here,  and  I  want  Rameau.  Git  out  o' 
my  way!" 

"You're  not  going  back,"  said  I. 

"The  hell   I   ain't!"   wud   Mr.   Percy.      "I  give 


316  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

ye  two  seconds  t'  git  out  o'  my — Take  yer  hands 
off  a  me!" 

I  made  sure  of  my  grip,  not  upon  the  refulgent 
overcoat,  for  I  feared  he  might  slip  out  of  that, 
but  upon  the  collars  of  his  coat  and  waistcoat, 
which  I  clenched  together  in  my  right  hand.  I 
knew  that  he  was  quick,  and  I  suspected  that  he 
was  "scientific,"  but  I  did  it  before  he  had  finished 
talking,  and  so  made  fast,  with  my  mind  and  heart 
and  soul  set  upon  sticking  to  him. 

My  suspicions  as  to  his  "science"  were  perfer- 
vidly  justified.  "You  long-legged  devil!"  he  yelled, 
and  I  instantly  received  a  series  of  concussions  upon 
the  face  and  head  which  put  me  in  supreme  doubt 
of  my  surroundings,  for  I  seemed  to  have  plunged, 
eyes  foremost,  into  the  Milky  Way.  But  I  had  my 
left  arm  around  his  neck,  which  probably  saved  me 
from  a  coup  de  grace,  as  he  was  forced  to  pommel 
me  at  half-length.  Pommel  it  was;  to  use  so  gentle 
a  word  for  what  to  me  was  crash,  bang,  smash, 
battle,  murder,  earthquake  and  tornado.  I  was  con- 
scious of  some  one  screaming,  and  it  seemed  a 
consoling  part  of  my  delirium  that  the  cheek  of 
Miss  Anne  Elliott  should  be  jammed  tight  against 
mine  through  one  phase  of  the  explosion.  My 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO  317 

arms  were  wrenched,  my  fingers  twisted  and  tor- 
tured, and,  when  it  was  all  too  clear  to  me  that  I 
could  not  possibly  bear  one  added  iota  of  physical 
pain,  the  ingenious  fiend  began  to  kick  my  shins 
and  knees  with  feet  like  crowbars. 

Conflict  of  any  sort  was  never  my  vocation.  I 
had  not  been  an  accessory-during-the-fact  to  a 
fight  since  I  passed  the  truculent  age  of  fourteen; 
and  it  is  a  marvel  that  I  was  able  to  hang  to  that 
dynamic  bundle  of  trained  muscles — which  defines 
Mr.  Earl  Percy  well  enough — for  more  than  ten 
seconds.  Yet  I  did  hang  to  him,  as  Pere  Baudry 
testifies,  for  a  minute  and  a  half,  which  seems  no 
inconsiderable  lapse  of  time  to  a  person  under- 
going such  experiences  as  were  then  afflicting  me. 

It  appeared  to  me  that  we  were  revolving  in 
enormous  circles  in  the  ether,  and  I  had  long  since 
given  my  last  gasp,  when  there  came  a  great  roaring 
wind  in  my  ears  and  a  range  of  mountains  toppled 
upon  us  both;  we  went  to  earth  beneath  it. 

"Ha!  you  must  create  violence,  then?"  roared 
the  avalanche. 

And  the  voice  was  the  voice  of  Keredec. 

Some  one  pulled  me  from  underneath  my  strug- 
gling antagonist,  and,  the  power  of  sight  in  a  hazy, 


318  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

zigzagging  fashion  coming  back  to  me,  I  perceived 
the  figure  of  Miss  Anne  Elliott  recumbent  beside 
me,  her  arms  about  Mr.  Percy's  prostrate  body. 
The  extraordinary  girl  had  fastened  upon  him,  too, 
though  I  had  not  known  it,  and  she  had  gone  to 
ground  with  us;  but  it  is  to  be  said  for  Mr.  Earl 
Percy  that  no  blow  of  his  touched  her,  and  she 
was  not  hurt.  Even  in  the  final  extremities  of  tem- 
per, he  had  carefully  discriminated  in  my  favour. 

Mrs.  Harman  was  bending  over  her,  and,  as  the 
girl  sprang  up  lightly,  threw  her  arms  about  her. 
For  my  part,  I  rose  more  slowly,  section  by  section, 
wondering  why  I  did  not  fall  apart;  lips,  nose,  and 
cheeks  bleeding,  and  I  had  a  fear  that  I  should  need 
to  be  led  like  a  blind  man,  through  my  eyelids  swell- 
ing shut.  That  was  something  I  earnestly  desired 
should  not  happen;  but  whether  it  did,  or  did  not— 
or  if  the  heavens  fell! — I  meant  to  walk  back  to 
Quesnay  with  Anne  Elliott  that  night,  and,  mangled, 
broken,  or  half-dead,  presenting  whatever  appear- 
anee  of  the  prize-ring  or  the  abattoir  that  I  might, 
I  intended  to  take  the  same  train  for  Paris  on  the 
morrow  that  she  did. 

For  our  days  together  were  not  at  an  end;  nor 
was  it  hers  nor  my  desire  that  they  should  be. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO  319 

It  was  Oliver  Saffren — as  I  like  to  think  of  him 
—who  helped  me  to  my  feet  and  wiped  my  face 
with  his  handkerchief,  and  when  that  one  was 
ruined,  brought  others  from  his  bag  and  stanched  the 
wounds  gladly  received,  in  the  service  of  his  wife. 

"I  will  remember — "  he  said,  and  his  voice  broke. 
"These  are  the  memories  which  Keredec  says  make 
a  man  good.  I  pray  they  will  help  to  redeem  me." 
And  for  the  last  time  I  heard  the  child  in  him 
speaking:  "I  ought  to  be  redeemed;  I  must  be, 
don't  you  think,  for  her  sake?" 

"Lose  no  time!"  shouted  Keredec.  "You  must 
be  gone  if  you  will  reach  that  certain  town  for  the 
five-o'clock  train  of  the  morning."  This  was  for 
the  spy's  benefit;  it  indicated  Lisieux  and  the  train 
to  Paris.  Mr.  Percy  struggled;  the  professor  knelt 
over  him,  pinioning  his  wrists  in  one  great  hand, 
and  holding  him  easily  to  earth. 

"Ha!  my  friend — "  he  addressed  his  captive — 
"you  shall  not  have  cause  to  say  we  do  you  any 
harm;  there  shall  be  no  law,  for  you  are  not  hurt, 
and  you  are  not  going  to  be.  But  here  you  shall  stay 
quiet  for  a  little  while — till  I  say  you  can  go."  As 
he  spoke  he  bound  the  other's  wrists  with  a  short 
rope  which  he  took  from  his  pocket,  performing  the 


-820  THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

same  office  immediately  afterward  for  Mr.  Percy's 
ankles. 

"I  take  the  count!"  was  the  sole  remark  of  that 
philosopher.  "I  can't  go  up  against  no  herd  of 
elephants." 

"And  now,"  said  the  professor,  rising,  "good- 
bye! The  sun  shall  rise  gloriously  for  you  tomorrow. 
Come,  it  is  time." 

The  two  women  were  crying  in  each  other's  arms. 
"Good-bye!"  sobbed  Anne  Elliott. 

Mrs.  Harman  turned  to  Keredec.  "Good-bye! 
for  a  little  while." 

He  kissed  her  hand.  "Dear  lady,  I  shall  come 
within  the  year." 

She  came  to  me,  and  I  took  her  hand,  meaning 
to  kiss  it  as  Keredec  had  done,  but  suddenly  she 
was  closer  and  I  felt  her  lips  upon  my  battered 
cheek.  I  remember  it  now. 

I  wrung  her  husband's  hand,  and  then  he  took  her 
in  his  arms,  lifted  her  to  the  foot-board  of  the  cart, 
and  sprang  up  beside  her. 

"God  bless  you,  and  good-bye!"  we  called. 

And  their  voices  came  back  to  us.  "God  bless  you 
and  good-bye!" 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO  321 

They  were  carried  into  the  enveloping  night. 
We  stared  after  them  down  the  road;  watching  the 
lantern  on  the  tail-board  of  the  cart  diminish; 
watching  it  dim  and  dwindle  to  a  point  of  gray; — 
listening  until  the  hoof -beats  of  the  heavy  Norman 
grew  fainter  than  the  rustle  of  the  branch  that  rose 
above  the  wall  beside  us.  But  it  is  bad  luck  to 
strain  eyes  and  ears  to  the  very  last  when  friends 
are  parting,  because  that  so  sharpens  the  loneliness; 
and  before  the  cart  went  quite  beyond  our  ken, 
two  of  us  set  out  upon  the  longest  way  to  Quesnay. 

THE   END 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  *.  Y. 


YB  6W4 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


